Page 66 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

She shuffles her feet, "So all this... this drama of meeting me in the pub, then calling me in to pitch for your company's account... It was all a farce?"

"Not completely. 7A and FOK Media need marketing help, though you wouldn't have been my first choice to take it on."

"I'm bloody good at my job." She growls.

"You lost your biggest client."

"Through no fault of mine. Hell, the last out-of-the-box marketing campaign I delivered, had their brand retention increasing by 75% year on year... If that isn't a good result, tell me what—" Her gaze narrows. "You?" she breathes.

Oh, this is getting interesting.

"You did it?"

"You have to be clearer than that." I tilt my head.

She stabs a finger in my direction, "You made sure that they dropped me."

"Maybe." I drum my fingers on my chest.

"You ensured I’d be so desperate that I’d jumped at the opportunity to pitch."

"I may have... ah, had a hand in them moving on, yes." I fold my fingers, glance at my fingernails. "But the events that followed?" I click my tongue. "It's entirely your fault."

"Mine?" Her eyebrows knit.

"If you had listened to me at the bar—"

"You were a complete jerkface." She juts out her chin. "What did you expect? That I'd throw myself at your feet and agree to do your bidding because you commanded me to?"

I tilt my head.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" She makes that noise deep in her throat again, and fuck, if my dick doesn't twitch. I frown. Who is this woman who thinks she can hijack every single conversation we have?

"Time's running out." I pull down the cuff of my shirt sleeve. "Fall in line with my plan... or... Well, you don't have a choice, do you?"

Her lips tighten, "You are as callous as my parent who kept away all these years. One who clearly wants nothing to do with us… So why would he care what you do to me?"

"Oh, I think he’d care very much if he found his daughter was marrying one of the richest men this side of the planet."

She stares at me, then chuckles, then throws her head back and laughs. She leans into the settee, rocks from side to side. Tears run down her cheeks.

I stalk to the other side of the room, pour out a generous finger of whiskey, then stalk toward her. When I pause in front of her, she flinches, and my gut lurches.

Of course, she hates me as much as I had despised her—or rather the concept of her—all this time.

She had been merely a pawn in a much larger game and now… Now I can’t give up. I am too close. So things haven’t proceeded exactly how they should have, thanks to her. She’s resourceful, I’ll give her that. Nevertheless, nothing will come in the way of this last mile. Not after a decade of planning and plotting every last move. So close, I am so close.

I place the glass on the table, move away. "Drink it."

"I don’t need it."

"You look like you are about to pop it, and believe me, while I don’t care one way or the other, I need you to be alive for the time it takes to see this through."

She shoots me a stare. Her green eyes burn into me, color flushes her cheeks, and her breasts heave. Damn, she is magnificent. My fingers tingle. My groin hardens. Oh, that fire, that fury inside of her. It had all been locked away, behind that scatterbrained façade. She is a little volcano, waiting to erupt, and guess who will be at the end, receiving all of that goodness? Not me. Nope. N-a-h. Don’t fall for her. Don’t try to rescue her. Just because she didn’t turn out to be exactly what you’d thought she would be.

"Drink it… or not. Your call."

I saunter away, toward my desk. Behind me, I sense her move. By the time I reach the desk and prop a hip against it, she’s drained the glass. She coughs, splutters, then stares at the glass, "I fucking hate you." She throws the glass against the wall. It bounces off, hits the ground, rolls to a standstill not half a foot away from her. She springs to her feet, picks it up, and pitches it at the wall again. It shatters, pieces raining down on the floor. She stays there, shoulders heaving.