Mr. Smithfield - Page 57

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Hollie said. “She caused way too much damage.”

Was it damage that could be repaired? They were still married after all. She’d been Gabriel’s family not so long ago and she was still Bethany’s mother. It would be naïve to think that wasn’t a strong bond. Perhaps it was a bond that was bent but not broken.

“I guess this is good in a way,” I said, pulling back my shoulders. “He’ll get the closure he needs or—” I didn’t want to think about the alternative.

I wasn’t ready to give him up. I’d never be ready to give him up. Gabriel was the best man I’d ever known. But if I understood that, then maybe his wife had come to her senses and realized that too.

Twenty-Six

Gabriel

This meeting would be utterly pointless. When I’d pressed my lawyer for more detail on what my ex-wife wanted to discuss, I’d simply been told that she wanted to talk about what happened. Well, I wasn’t interested. But I’d treat this like our monthly partners meeting: I wasn’t interested in most of those but I sat through them anyway. Usually, I spent the time figuring out the answer to some complex tax issue that was stalling my current acquisition, or a real estate problem that had affected price on my latest disposal. This would be no different. I would sit there, but I wouldn’t engage.

I’d insisted the meeting would be at my lawyers’ offices and in front of our respective representation. I didn’t want her to think this meeting was personal.

It was business, nothing more.

I caught the lift before the doors closed and went to press the button to the eighth floor, but it was already illuminated. I straightened and faced the doors, wondering whether a preemptive bid on the tech deal I was working on was the way to go.

The lift stopped at every floor and I stepped aside, letting people from behind me exit. On the third floor, I looked up as the doors closed and there she was.

The woman I’d stood at the altar with and vowed to love the rest of my life.

The woman I’d brought a child into the world with.

The woman who’d walked out on our family with no explanation.

“Gabriel,” she said in a whisper.

I turned back to face the doors and she stepped closer.

“You look good, Gabe.”

No one called me Gabe except her.

I hated it. When we were married, I’d thought it was intimate. Special. But all of it had just been fake. All the times she’d said she loved me. All the plans we’d made for the future. Nothing about her had been real.

“How’s Bethany?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure I could endure this meeting without burning the place to the ground. How dare she ask about my daughter? I ignored her and focused on the numbers above the doors as they flashed four, five, six, seven—the doors opened, and I waited for her to step out. When she didn’t, I went first and headed straight to the reception desk without looking back. The receptionist showed me to the meeting room and my lawyer met me at the door.

We sat and waited. Gillian knew me better than to try to make small talk.

Someone knocked on the door and I stood, my eyes fixed on the blank wall in front of me as my ex and her lawyer were shown into the meeting room. I sat, not wanting to greet either of them.

“Thank you for coming, Gabriel,” Penelope said. I’d forgotten the timbre of her voice and how sweet she sounded. It was one of the first things that had attracted me to her. But she was anything but sweet.

I looked her right in the eye. “I have twenty minutes and then I have to get to another meeting.”

“Always so busy,” she said with a smile.

I didn’t reply. This wasn’t a conversation as far as I was concerned. It was a means to an end. If I sat here for twenty minutes, I’d get the divorce papers signed. It was as simple as that.

“Well, I appreciate you making time in your day for me,” she said when she realized I wasn’t going to respond.

Without warning, she stood and moved her chair around the table so we weren’t across from each other but kitty corner. What was she doing?

“I want to say I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry for not talking to you. I’m sorry for leaving and I’m sorry for not being in contact since. I know it must be impossible to forgive me, but I wanted you to understand that I know I was wrong, and I take full responsibility.” She took a deep breath when she finished, seeming relieved to have it all out.

It took all my strength not to laugh. She said it as if she was expecting me to be grateful. That I would tell her that as long as she knew it was wrong, it was fine—she could do anything she liked if only she accepted responsibility. But I didn’t laugh. I didn’t say or do anything. I just focused on the clock overhead and how I only had eighteen more minutes of this to endure.

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