The Villain (Boston Belles 2)

Her face reddened, and she clutched the sides of her dress in her fists.

Now was a good time to tell her I did not tell Sam what happened.

That he didn’t know she poisoned herself.

Before I could do any of these things, Persephone turned around and disappeared like a fleeting ray.

All eyes were on me.

“Ready for my monster hand?” I leaned forward on the now empty table, fanning the cards I still held in my hand.

Hunter groaned.

Devon rolled his eyes.

But Sam…Sam knew.

He looked at me with his calm, gray eyes that didn’t miss anything, big or small. Important or mundane.

I plastered my kings on the table and sat back.

Hunter and Devon choked.

“Goddamn.” Hunter smacked his cards on the rich oak. “You always win.”

Not always.

I glanced at the empty doorway.

Not this time.

Three hours later, my friends were finally gone.

I climbed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I was forty-five thousand dollars richer and a million times more likely to stab Sam Brennan in the face for his bad advice.

What on earth made me put surveillance on my wife? I already knew she was going to do as she pleased. And what did Sam know about women, anyway? He loathed the very idea of them unless they were his stepmother and sister.

I didn’t bother to go through the whole pretending-to-get-ready-for-bed-in-my-room routine. I went straight to Flower Girl’s room and knocked on her door.

After three knocks and radio silence, I pushed the door open a few inches.

The room was empty.

“Petar!”

My roar nearly tore my vocal cords and likely caused the windows some damage. My estate manager was there within seconds, having never heard me raise my voice before.

I was sorting through her closet, trying to see if she’d left some of her essentials here. The things she loved and cherished the most.

She hadn’t.

Dammit.

“Sir, do you need anything?” Petar said from the doorway.

I turned to him.

“Yes. I need to know where the fuck is my wife?”

By the look on his face, I wasn’t done shocking people with my recent use of profanity. He snapped quickly, shaking his head.

“I…ah…she…she didn’t say. I figured she was going on a weekend somewhere?”

“And why would you figure that?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, because she took several suitcases with her and didn’t want any help with them.”

“Did she say where she was going?” I demanded.

“No, sir.”

“How many suitcases did she take with her?”

“Quite a few.”

“Do you know how to count, Petar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now’s the time to use those math skills and give me a fucking number.”

He gulped, doing the math with his fingers.

“Seven. She took seven suitcases, sir.”

“And you thought she was going for a weekend,” I lamented. I was surrounded by idiots. He swallowed hard, about to say something, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. I stormed into my room. A part of me wanted to chase her ass and bring her back home, where she should be, but another acknowledged that I’d done quite enough of twisting her arm to my will, and that she could very well decide to testify against me in the Arrowsmith case if I continued pushing her.

The thought shocked me.

The idea of Persephone sitting on the stand telling people how I’d mistreated her sickened me.

I grabbed my oak desk, looking out the window, digging my fingers into it so hard, the wood broke into splinters. I clutched the surface until my fingers were bloodied and shaking with exhaustion. Until the tremors in my body ceased.

Don’t lose it.

Don’t lose it because of a woman.

Don’t lose it at all.

I grabbed my phone out of my pocket, about to text Sam.

He had to tell his men to stop following her.

Then I had to tell her I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else.

I slid my thumb over the screen just as I got an incoming message.

Persephone: You refuse to let me go, but you won’t have me. If you won’t get a divorce, I will. You can’t keep me against my will. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t come anywhere near me. Don’t worry. I won’t file until after the trial against Green Living is over. Your secret’s safe with me. You wanted to marry a stranger. Congratulations. You just made me one.

“I’m going to kill my brother,” Sailor announced.

She was standing in the middle of Belle’s studio, cradling her baby bump.

My sister, Ash, and I were tucked on the couch inside a giant throw, sipping wine in glasses the size of fishbowls. I called the girls for an emergency meeting the minute I’d left my house.

My husband’s house.

Our marriage wasn’t real, and neither was our partnership.

Right now, both seemed in real jeopardy of surviving the latest blow.

“You’ll off Sam, I’ll murder Kill,” Belle talked to Sailor, rubbing my arm reassuringly. “I’m leaning toward castrating him and letting him bleed out. Not necessarily using a blunt object. Something that would make the process slow and painful.”