Page 38 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Liam

I swirl my Macallan in the cut-glass tumbler.

It’s a thirty-year-old double cask. The fresh honeycomb and apple aroma is potent.

And the taste? A complex melody of ginger, vanilla, dried fruits, and oak.

Sweet and soft, with a bit of spice and the depth of toffee, with notes of red apple and fig thrown in for good measure.

Almost as evocative as her taste. Almost as memorable as her scent.

As lush as her cries when she fell apart under me.

As haunting as the secrets in her eyes. I had her investigated, but nothing stood out of the ordinary.

Other than her father dying early, her childhood seemed happy.

And meeting her family only confirms that.

She has friends who are loyal to her, runs a thriving business—which is going to boom with the publicity that continues to roll in from that single video, and the pictures the paps took of us disembarking my private jet and through the windows of our car as we drove home.

I arranged for that, of course. Just enough to keep them salivating, but not too much to spoil the mystique of what we are. What are we, anyway? Another made-for-media couple who will be filing for divorce soon?

At least, we won’t be setting any records on that.

Small consolation. She thinks I’m going to let her out of the agreement, but she’s in for a rude awakening.

I married her with one purpose—to get my inheritance—and I plan to ensure that happens.

Which means, she has to stay married to me for whatever length of time that takes.

Which gives me a fighting chance. An opportunity I’m not going to squander.

"Deep thoughts for someone who just got married. Shouldn’t you be home with the Missus?

" Hunter-fucking-Whittington strolls over. He sinks into the armchair next to mine. We’re at the club JJ Kane opened a month ago and which Sinclair Sterling’s company 7A invested in.

It’s smack dab in the center of London, yet hidden away behind one of the pockets of greenery the city seems to abound in.

It’s a good place to retreat to when you don’t want to be disturbed by anyone.

Normally, I’d be at my townhouse if I felt the need for solitude, but she’s there, and I’m not ready to face her.

Not after that last conversation, when she trampled my heart.

Not yet, at least. I also don’t want to go to the penthouse which holds too many memories of her.

Which is why, like a coward, I came here after work.

I could have worked from home, but opted to go into the office for the same reason.

Good thing I checked earlier and know I still have my balls.

Else I wouldn’t have believed it, given this overwhelming need to sulk that seems to have grabbed hold of me.

"I thought they promised privacy here?" I glance around the living-room-like space of the club.

"They do."

I look at him pointedly. It takes a second for it to sink in, then he chuckles. "Good one, ol’ pal. Good to know you haven’t yet lost your rapier wit, despite the ol’ ball and chain."

"If you don’t have anything meaningful to say, why don’t you get your fat face out of here?"

In response, he leans forward, pours a generous splash of whiskey in his glass, and raises it in my direction. "Here’s to you and your beautiful bride, and to a long and happy marriage."

"You’re a little too late with the wishes. It won’t be long before we go our separate ways."

He lowers his glass without taking a sip. "You’re shitting me."

I toss back the contents of my glass, then pour out more of the elixir.

"She doesn’t think we have a chance with each other."

"And you accepted that?"

"Of course, not. But my every overture has been met with an adamant refusal to recognize that what we have is unique."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"For one thing, I’m not letting her get out of the agreement, I—" I firm my lips.

What the—? Did I actually blurt that out?

That was utterly foolish. Since when did I start making such juvenile mistakes?

Did I actually reveal the true nature of the connection between me and my wife?

Jesus Christ, looks like I am losing my touch.

"I… see," Hunter says slowly.

"No, you don’t."

"Sure I do. You had to be married to claim the rights to your company and your trust fund, so you proposed an agreement."

I scowl.

"Very mature of you."

"Don’t patronize me, asshole."

"Me, patronize you?" He widens his eyes. "What gave you that idea? Besides, it’s what I would have done."

"You would?"

"Sure—" He pulls his phone out of his pocket and begins to play with it.

"You wanted to keep your feelings out of this entire marriage business, while also locking down your inheritance.

" He glances down, his fingers flying over the screen as he addresses me.

"You wanted to find someone over whom you have control, and strike an arrangement with her.

Everything was good, but for one thing."

"What?" I’m almost too scared to ask.

"You fell in love with her." He looks up at me.

I laugh, or at least try to, but it comes out more like a cough. "You’re out of your mind."

"No, you’re going out of your mind, wondering how, for the first time, things are not going according to plan. You made the mistake of getting your emotions involved, brother. Now, you don’t have a choice but to deal with it."

"I’m not going out of my mind. I’m simply—"

"Going out of your mind?" he offers helpfully.

"—trying to understand the nature of the problem I’m dealing with." I scowl

"Sure, you’re using your head to figure out why it is you’re having this emotional reaction to her. You know you’re in over your head, but you’re still trying to deny it."

His words ring more true than they should. "And since when did you become an expert in relationships?"

"Can’t claim to be one, but I have one advantage over you."

"What’s that?"

"I’m not you.” At my scowl, he continues, “I have the advantage of having perspective on this situation."

"No shit." I toss back the contents of my glass, then reach forward to top up my glass again.

"Don’t you think you should go slow on that?"

"On the contrary, it’s time for me to drink copious quantities of alcohol."

"Yep, definitely entangled in the quagmire of love." He smirks.

"Shut the fuck up." I glance into the depths of my tumbler.

"And now, he stares into his liquor. You do realize you’re conforming to the stereotype of the heartbroken lover in every way?"

"Were you always this annoying?" I glare at him.

"Not as much as Declan." As if on cue, his phone vibrates. Before I can stop him, he’s pulled up his screen and put the call on speaker.

"Hey, motherfuckers," Declan singsongs.

I wince. "Clearly, I’m surrounded by men who’ve never moved beyond the student stage of life."

"Well, hello, gramps, how’s it hanging?" He calls down the line.

"I think I have a very important meeting to go to." I lean forward as if to rise to my feet, but Stooge 1, aka Hunter, grips my shoulder.

"Oh, no, you don’t. You’re the first of the three of us to tie the knot, and then get yourself into a situation that appears to have no escape. You don’t think we’re going to pass up the chance to ridicule you, do you?"

"And I suppose it’s a coincidence that Declan calls while I’m with you?"

"I may have messaged him," Hunter says without a trace of regret on his face.

I glower at him. "And why would you do that?"

"Knowing I needed back up for what I’m going to say."

"Which is?"

He scrutinizes my features. "You’re a lot of things but you’re not a liar, or a coward."

"Are you calling me a liar and a coward?" I snap.

He scoffs. "Didn’t you hear what I just said, Kincaid? You’re anything but a liar and a coward, which is why I know you’re not going to pretend your feelings don’t exist."

"Are we turning into a chick-flick here? Is that what this is about? You lost your balls? Is that why we’re sitting around talking about my sentiments?"

"We’re talking about this because, clearly, you’re not going to.

And it can’t be easy for your tiny mind to process that, for the first time, it’s not your head but your heart that’s going to have to take the lead.

Also," —he raises his hand before I can open my mouth to protest— "don’t contradict me because I won’t believe you.

Not only that, your eyes say the opposite of whatever trash you’re going to spew. "

"Oh, so now you’re reading my unspoken gestures?"

"I’m a politician. I make a living by interpreting the unsaid."

"And here I thought all politicians were good for was to say things without thinking."

"That’s what makes me different. And don’t change the topic."

"I’m not," I protest.

"Yes, you are," both Declan and Hunter say at the same time.

It’s bloody annoying when someone you grew up with knows you so well.

Better than my own family, actually. Which is also my fault.

I couldn’t tell them what I went through when Weston went missing.

And I’ve only hinted what happened to Declan and Hunter.

She’s the first person I’ve unburdened myself to.

And maybe it’s time I told my best friends, too.

"I was taken and held prisoner when I was eighteen."

"What?" Hunter blinks.

"Eh?" Declan makes a noise of surprise.

"What are you talking about, ol’ chap?"

"I was held captive by the same people who took Weston and the rest of the Seven."

"Is this your way of deflecting attention?" Hunter scoffs.

"It’s not. You remember the time I went missing for two weeks—"

"I do—" Declan interrupts me. "It was a few months after we met at Oxford. We thought you were shacked up with the older woman you were shagging at that time. But I take it that wasn’t the case?”

I nod. "I managed to track down the whereabouts of Weston’s kidnappers, but instead of saving him and the rest of the boys, I was taken."

"And then they let you go?" Hunter frowns.

"I escaped."

"But they kept you for nearly two weeks…" his voice tapers off. "What are you not telling us? What did they do to you?"

"It wasn’t as bad as what you’re thinking… but it was everything else."

Hunter’s frown deepens. "Did they…?"

"Rape me, fuck no. Abuse me, yes."

"Fuck!" Hunter’s fingers tighten on his glass. "Did they catch the guy?"

"He’s dead."

"And you know that because—"

“Michael Sovrano, whose father was behind the entire plan of kidnapping Weston and the Seven, told me so.”

"So, he’s aware of what happened to you?"

"No. No one is—except her. And now you two."

There’s silence for a few seconds, then Declan murmurs, "I always wondered what happened to you during that time. You seemed to drop off the face off the earth, which wasn’t unusual, per se, but then you seemed to shut us out for a period after that.

You stopped attending classes, went on a spree where you seemed to pick fights with everyone possible.

You even volunteered for the Fight Club. "

He’s referring to the very originally named street-fighting club organized by the Russian mafia that took place in a warehouse in East London.

For a while I was, indeed, on a self-destructive spree.

Rather than talk to my parents or a professional about it, I decided to take matters—and my life—into my own hands.

I preferred to brawl as a way of dealing with what had happened to me.

The fighting and the pain I inflicted on myself by my own choice seemed one way of being able to control my life.

"It was thanks to the two of you that I stopped before I killed myself."

"I assume you’re referring to the time the two of us intervened in a fight as you were about to be pounded by that Russian giant who looked like Big Foot?" Hunter snorts.

"He smelled worse." I scowl recalling the fetid odor of unwashed skin and desperation that had wafted off the man. He’d hammered me from the get-go and kept laying into me. And indeed, if the two of them hadn't found me in that makeshift ring and jumped in to save my ass, I’d have been toast. I wince. It was a good month before I was able to walk properly after the beating I taken at the hands, and under the foot, of that behemoth. It was a wake-up call. Nothing like a few broken bones and the inability to get out of bed to give one a chance to examine one’s sins and one’s past and decide what to do moving forward.

"It didn’t hurt that the two of you gave me a talking to, either," I murmur.

"Oh good, so you’ll realize this intervention is to stop you for making a bigger mess of your life than it already is?" Declan drawls.

"And maybe you’ll pay heed to what we’re trying to get through your thick skull," Hunter growls.

He’s not wrong. In fact, I hate to admit that both twatarses make a few good points. It’s what I’d already realized, but hearing it from them somehow makes it all real.

Not only am I well and truly fucked, but things are about to get worse.

It’s the kind of life-changing shit that comes about only a few times in a man’s life.

It happened to me when I was kidnapped, then when my father died, and now…

When I realized I’d done the one thing I swore I never would.

Fall in love with a blue-eyed, curvy, spit-fire of a woman from whom I won’t take no for an answer.

I glance between them, toss back the rest of my whiskey, then reach for the bottle. But this time, Hunter beats me to it. He tops off my glass. "Not preaching to me about the need to keep a clear head?"

He chuckles. "Somehow, I think you’re going to need the alcohol this time."