Page 156 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

47

Sin

I’d turned and stalked toward the door of that hospital waiting room... and paused. I'd turned and caught a glimpse of Karma and Summer holding each other, Victoria, slightly to the side.

At least Summer would have company. My wife wouldn't be alone in her grief.

That had reassured me; enough that I’d walked away.

I had set her free, just as I’d intended to do all along. Arranged the funeral for her father; had told myself I wouldn’t go. Then had contented myself with watching her from a distance.

Fuck, when had I started second-guessing my moves, huh?

Why is it that I can recall the shape of her black dress as it had hugged her curves, ending below her knees? Her pink hair had shone in the afternoon sun.

Yeah, unlike in the movies, in real life, the fucking sunshine bathes a funeral scene in golden light, even in rain-drenched London.

My wife had held onto her sister, flanked by her stepmother on the other side.

Saint had represented the Seven.

He’d stood at the other end of the crowd, his attention focused on Victoria. Again.

Summer had glanced up and spotted me.

Our gazes had connected. I’d held hers, willed her to come to me. She’d stiffened, then deliberately turned away, and I’d forced myself to leave.

That was exactly seven days ago. I’d focused on 7A and FOK media, had buried myself in my work.

She’d told me to get away from her, and I had.

For the first time in my life, I had gone against my every instinct, which had screamed at me to gather her close, comfort her, take care of her. She hadn’t wanted it. And I had listened to her wishes. Fuck me. Fuck her. Fuck this thing between us that seems to grow bigger with every second.

I raise the bottle of whiskey and chug it down. The liquid hits my stomach like a fireball. I stare out through the open window of my office.

"Planning on alcohol poisoning yourself, huh?" Saint walks up to stand next to me.

I don’t reply, stare into the distance, where London spreads her skirts out, waiting for the next big bastard who will fuck her in the cunt. Oh, wait. That’s me. I am the one who’s turned every innocent thing that’s come my way into sordidness; who’s made my millions doing whatever it took, for as everyone knows, you can’t reach the top without stepping on some bodies.

That’s all she’d been. Collateral damage. So why am I standing here brooding when my plan had worked spectacularly? I had destroyed Adam, and in the process, my wife. I hadn’t thought she’d take me down with her. Without trying. Without raising a finger. She’d bared herself to me and I had crushed her.

"It wasn’t your fault."

"Oh?" I raise the bottle to my lips, take another healthy swig.

"He could dish it out, too bad his heart couldn’t take it."

Whatever.

He holds out his hand and I hand the bottle to him.

"How long are you going to sulk?"

"Do I look like I am sulking?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

I thrust out my hand and he holds out the bottle. It’s empty. Typical.