Page 27 of Rulebreaker (Gamebreakers #4)
TWENTY-SEVEN
Atlas
I’m shaking, fury vibrating through every cell, every fiber of my being.
Don’t background check the people around me, she’d said–or had basically said, anyway. Don’t delve into their private lives, respect their past, their secrets, be open to them sharing them with me when they’re ready.
And it was…
Fuck, it was all a goddamned lie.
Her throat works, as though she’s swallowing down tears. “I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you,” she whispers.
I snort.
“I swear,” she says. “I was going to tell you this morning and?—”
“What’s the end game here?” I ask, the words so frigid they hurt the back of my teeth as they come out, frost the air. “Play the billionaire? Get him to fall for you?” I shove my phone back into my pocket, then one hand and then the other, the better to not strangle her.
Or maybe, to not show her how much my hands are fucking shaking.
The betrayal coursing through me…
It’s a violently powerful thing.
“I know it’s not for money,” I clip out. “You have enough of it on your own. So what was it? Rich girl needs her kicks? Or maybe you’re trying to secure a business deal for your husband–does he need money to fund a label?”
“It’s not what you think,” she says, taking a step toward me and lifting a hand.
Like she might touch me.
Absolutely not.
Fuck no.
“You need to get your stuff together,” I say. “I’ll arrange for your flight back to Tennessee.”
“Atlas, please listen to me.”
I clench my hands–still in my pockets–into fists and grind my teeth together. “You need to go.”
“I can explain, I swear.”
“Lily, you need to leave.”
“But I can?—”
“ Just get your shit and fucking go!” I shout, throwing an arm out and sweeping the contents off the top of the table.
Glasses go flying, shattering on the tile, sending shards of glass in all directions, orange juice splattering
The cinnamon rolls cascade down beside the mess, ruined and inedible.
Silverware clatters, napkins flutter.
My omelets that I’d painstakingly cooked, wanting them to be perfect for Lily, are reduced to slop.
To shit .
This whole thing–the thing I thought was beautiful and special and mine …it’s shit.
Lies and manipulation and?—
She’s still standing there, staring at me with tears streaming down her cheeks. I want to hate her– need to–but I still have the sick urge to step close and take her into my arms.
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 fucking liar , 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– shitting on–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?
She grabs my arm again, and I shake her off.
But I don’t stop this time, not as she calls my name again, not as she keeps talking, keeps crying .
I ignore her, ignore the lies, the manipulations and I shove through the front door, move to the car, and a half minute later, I’m driving to the airport, the ice slowly closing in on me, slowly encasing my heart, my brain, my soul.
I call Briar on the way .
“The jet’s ready and waiting for you two,” she says before I can even make the request and rattles off the pertinent details of its location and estimated time of departure.
But it’s the for you two that has me correcting, “For me.” It’s a small distinction.
But I know the instant she gets it.
She sucks in a breath then asks softly, sadly, “For you?”
Fuck, I don’t want to do this.
Can’t do it.
“Right. Thanks,” I manage to bite out, wanting off the phone, knowing it’s not fair to be snapping at her, but so close to losing it–truly losing it in a way I’ve never, fucking never –experienced that it’s the best I can manage.
The shattered plates and glasses, the mess in the kitchen.
The fucking omelets .
“Can you also arrange for a cleaning at Jean-Michel’s place?” I rasp.
A beat. “I’m sure he has it cover?—”
“Please just do it, Briar,” I grit out.
There’s a long pause. Then a soft, “I’ll arrange for it.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Are you…” Briar is never hesitant with me. Except today. Except now .
Which highlights exactly how fucked up this shit is.
Including the next request I make before I hang up and put us both out of our misery.
“I also need you to arrange for Lily to get home.”
The pause on the other end of the line is so long that I almost think that the call’s dropped out.
“Atlas, are you?—”
“Briar.” I say as I pull into the small, local airport. “ Please. ”
She exhales quietly. “I’ll take care of it. ”
“Thanks,” I say again, but this time after it’s hit the air, I immediately hang up.
I get out of the car, find the hanger, and get my ass onto my plane.
Not long after, I’m flying back to SoCal.
But once there, I don’t go home.
I go to the one place that has never let me down.
The office.
Because fuck love.
Work is the only thing I’ll ever trust again.