Page 121 of Playboy Pitcher

The final piece clicks into place, and I step back to look at the ugly, twisted picture. “Speaker phone,” I rasp.

Soren closes the folder and sets it on his lap. “The rest of the story tells itself. Drake meets up with Roger in Atlanta, threatens to out Willow, and before you know it, there’s an addendum to Mays’s will.”

I think of the last words Willow and I spoke. How she tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.

“Ben, I’m in real trouble…”

Rising to my feet, I pace to the floor-to-ceiling windows and look out over Central Park. “That’s what she was trying to tell me. That was Prescott’s ace in the hole. He held onto it until the last minute.” Dropping my forehead against the glass, I rub my eyes. “He found the prenup.”

“Thewhat?” Mom asks, my admission shaving a sharp edge to her normally soft voice.

I don’t turn around as I bleed out the truth. “I told you our marriage was for financial gain, Mom. I’m not proud of what I did, but I don’t regret it.”

“I know, son.”

“The only thing I regret is underestimating Prescott. He knew about the prenup, he just didn’t disclose it when he leaked our marriage certificate to the press. He saved that as a personal weapon.” Finally, I turn and face my family. “It’s the only reason she’d ask for an annulment and not a divorce.”

And I left her to fend for herself while I ran away to lick my wounds.

I don’t stop to think as I rush across the living room. “I’ve got to get back there and stop her from signing that contract.”

I’m stopped by a small blonde powerhouse who steps in front of me, blocking my path. “Ben, wait. Knowing why she’s doing what she’s doing isn’t going to stop her. It’s obvious she’ll do anything to protect her sister.”

“Not necessarily.” Three pairs of eyes turn to where Soren holds up a fourth and final document, a smug grin spreading across his face. “You and Willow weren’t the only ones who had a prenup, Ben.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It has never takenme so long to sign my name to a piece of paper. I just kept staring at the blank line, hoping I’d wake up from a bad dream.

But there’s no dream. This is all very real.

My marriage is over.

As of this morning, signed papers were filed with the Camden County courthouse in St. Mary’s, Georgia annulling the marriage of Willow McBaine and Benson LaCroix.

As voices chatter around me, I glance down at my left hand, unable to take my eyes off the silver band still sitting on my third finger. The red stitching takes on a whole new meaning now. It doesn’t look as much like a baseball anymore as it does a fresh scar.

One that will never heal.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slip it off my finger and tuck it in my pocket. Instead of feeling lighter, my finger feels bare and naked.

Exposed.

Just like me.

Someone across the table laughs moments before a loudpopjars me back into reality. I glare beside me as Drake pours himself a glass of the newly opened bottle of champagne he brought to celebrate.

“Is that necessary?” I growl.

“Yes,” he says, flashing those obscenely white teeth. Taking a sip, he smacks his lips. “Mmmm, tastes like victory.”

Unable to stomach his face any longer, I divert my attention across the table where Ned sits with a stack of business cards, crossing outGeneral Managerand rewritingVice-President of Operationsright above it.

Fucking Judas.

Clearing his throat, Jack the Dickless Sheep rises to his feet beside me. He’s no longer at the head of the table. Drake claimed his throne the minute we walked into the conference room. “Well, let’s not waste any more time, shall we?”

“Absolutely,” Drake exclaims, raising his glass. “Besides, Willow has a long drive ahead of her.” Leaning close, he lowers his voice. “Bon voyage, bitch.”