Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“Shit happens,” he said with a dismissive shrug, looking like he had not one single regret at missing such a momentous occasion.

“I asked you not to go. I told you I was due soon.”

“And I told you it couldn’t wait. Ten million dollars disappeared; I had to get to Perth to figure out what the fuck was going on down there.”

“Harris could have gone,” she pointed out. In fact, Harris should have gone. As the CFO of the Chapman Global Property Group, he was the obvious choice to deal with an embezzlement problem. In fact, she was sure that any of their executives could have handled the problem without either of the Chapman brothers getting directly involved.

She licked her dry, chapped lips, desperate for a sip of water, and was about to ask Greyson to pour her a glass, but his icy indifference made her hesitate.

He doesn’t want to be here.

It was obvious in the tense set of his jaw and the bleak coldness in his elusive gaze. He sat stiffly, his shoulders straight and his spine barely touching the backrest of the chair. Greyson had always been a little unapproachable, but this was something else entirely. This was a stranger. A man who looked like he had never touched her with any tenderness or passion. A man who looked like he barely knew her and didn’t much care to.

His gaze shifted and made contact with hers, and in a moment of absolute and stunning clarity, she understood that this man—her husband—hated her. The knowledge stole her breath, and she gasped, her eyes flooding with tears at the shocking revelation. She had never fooled herself into believing that he loved her, but she’d always thought he liked her or at least had some measure of fondness for her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, likely in response to her tears. His voice was as indifferent as the rest of him, and she knew he didn’t care what her answer would be.

“I-I was thinking . . . we never discussed names,” she prevaricated hastily, needing a moment to gather her thoughts and emotions. His brow kinked, the only expression he ever allowed himself. “What should we name her?”

He shrugged. The gesture was disdainful and disinterested at the same time.

“You choose.”

“But . . .”

“Name her whatever the fuck you want,” he snapped, the ice cracking and allowing her a glimpse into the terrifying darkness lurking beneath. The profanity shocked her, as Greyson rarely swore. Harris was the earthier of the two and could swear up a storm at the slightest provocation. Greyson had a great deal more restraint than his ten-minutes-younger brother.

Libby struggled to push herself up, and he didn’t move a muscle to assist her.

“Okay, Greyson, what the hell is your problem?” she wheezed, after—with a great deal of difficulty and indignity—managing to lift herself enough to feel less vulnerable.

“Not sure what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” she snapped, folding her arms over her chest and wincing a little when she brushed against her oversensitive nipples. They would be bringing the baby in for a feeding soon. Before, she had been excited for Greyson to witness that, at least, since he had missed so much else, but now she no longer knew what she wanted. All she knew was that she had to figure out what was going on, and soon. They couldn’t continue like this. “You’ve been cold and distant and not the slightest bit interested since I told you I was pregnant. And I want to know why!”

He smiled . . . if one could call it that. A frigid, joyless baring of teeth that looked terrifyingly sinister on his gorgeous face.

“Because it doesn’t interest me. None of this interests me, not you and not your child. I was hoping you’d come clean, but I see you’d just happily continue with this ridiculous charade if I allowed it.”

“What are you talking about?” Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and suddenly her thirst felt uncontrollable. She desperately wanted that water, needed it, focused on it to the exception of all else. Because it was so much better to concentrate on her raging thirst and the currently unobtainable water than it was to look into her husband’s hate-filled dark-blue eyes. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say—she knew it would be ugly and hurtful and would finally damage what was left of their relationship beyond repair.

“Hello, Mummy . . . look who’s awake and hungry!” A cheerful voice sliced through the oppressive tension like a machete, and Libby jumped. Greyson shifted his hostile gaze toward the doorway, where a nurse was wheeling a crib into the lavish private hospital room. The woman’s eyes were trained on the tiny, pink-wrapped bundle in the crib, which thankfully allowed Libby a moment to regroup and plaster a smile onto her face.