Page 79 of Rulebreaker

The sick urge to tell her that everything will be okay.

“Fine,” I growl, making her jump–hating that too. “Then I’ll fucking go.” I start for the hall.

“Atlas,” she says, suddenly beside me, hand on my arm, fingers clenching tight, as though she can anchor me in place.

But her touch makes me want to puke–because she’s manipulating me, because she’s a fuckingliar, and because I still want her.

Christ.

“Don’t,” I grind out, pulling out of her hold.

“It’s not like you think,” she says again. “When Stan and I got married, I was young. I didn’t know better. He was helping me with my career, convinced me that it would be beneficial for both of us if we were together.”

“Right,” I say dryly.

Hurt across her eyes. “He’s forty years older than me and I was twenty. I didn’t know what I was signing up for and he was nice. Really nice.” A shake of her head. “My dad wasn’t in the picture much, and he certainly wasn’t nice. And…Stan got me, got my passion, helped me break into the industry. But by the time I realized how seriously messed up our relationship was—” Her voice cracks.

And I wait.

Wanting her next words to make this all go away.

A terrible nightmare that I’m awoken from.

Not reality trodding on–shittingon–the future I dreamed of.

Unfortunately, that’s not what happens.

“My career was taking off and we both decided it was easier to just leave things alone for the time being. A public deep dive into my divorce when I want to be in the news for my work wasn’t a good look.”

Wasn’t. A. Good. Look.

“So you lied.”

She stills, rocking back slightly on her heels, as though I’ve punched her.

Funny, that’s how I felt.

“This is why you gave me a hard time about the background check,” I say. “You didn’t want me to look into you, didn’t want me to find out about this.”

The guilt slicing through her face tells me enough.

Tells me that I hit that shit right on the head.

“Right,” I say again, and that’s all I say because I’m turning for the hall again, heading for the front of the house.

“That’s not it,” she says trailing after me. “Or not the only reason,” she corrects, her words a sharp blow.

I fucking knew it.

“—and I love you, and?—”

I grab my wallet, the keys from the table in the hall.

Fuck my toiletries, my clothes.

I have more.

And besides, everything–everyone–is replaceable, right?