Page 20 of The Billionaire's Wife

He pushed to his feet and paced to the window.

“I don’t think you do.” I twisted my fingers in my lap. I’d known it wasn’t going to go well, but I hadn’t expected it to go this badly.

Of course, Tristan declaring his love for me wasn’t something that had been on my radar, either.

“Oh?” He turned around and faced me, his head tilted to the side. “Enlighten me, why don’t you?” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

I hunched my shoulders. “You’re going to stand there and say I was far out in left field with that? Do you remember my father? The whole reason I wanted to get away from him?”

Pink tinged the tips of Tristan’s ears. He nodded once.

“So. Given that dear old Dad didn’t have any qualms about using sex as a string, why wouldn’t I expect that’s what was going on with us?” I crossed my arms over my chest. I didn’t like to think about Dad. I did a good job of pretending he didn’t exist. But he was the one person I’d always kept tabs on. The worst possible situation would be running into him again. When he’d died after having been shanked in jail a year and a half ago, I hadn’t shed any tears.

“I wasn’t the one—” He broke off and pressed his lips together. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Knowing how cheaply you saw me and my feelings for you explains a lot.”

I opened my mouth to speak but Tristan was already striding down the hallway toward the bedrooms. My stomach twisted and I felt vaguely ill. This…had to be bad.

I’d barely started to wonder if I should chase him and make him finish this out when he returned.

He tossed a thick envelope down on the coffee table in front of me. “That’s for you. Make sure I get it back. I’ll still help you with this problem you’ve made for yourself, but as soon as we get the FBI to take it over? You’re on your own. Got it?”

My fingers itched to snatch up the envelope and see what it was. But the emptiness of Tristan’s eyes as he looked at me kept me frozen.

He frowned slightly. “Is your silence a yes, you understand? Or do I need to be clearer?”

“I’ve got it. I’ll find a hotel tonight.”

“No. It’s not safe yet. And I wouldn’t want you to think I was using your safety as a manipulative string.”

The barb hit home and I winced.

I swallowed. “I’ll go to my room now, if that’s all right?”

“Do what you want. It’s all you ever do, anyway.” Bitterness laced his words and he turned and strode from the room before I could respond.

My shoulders sagged and for a moment, I let myself fall back against the couch. Had I known he loved me? Really loved me? Was that why I’d gone out of my way to make sure to overcome his chivalrous nature and get him into bed?

He might have cut himself off, but I’d followed what he had planned to say. He wasn’t the one who’d made the moves. And he was right about that. He’d offered marriage. I jumped on it. He’d given me a safe place and had been a gentleman about everything. But I’d seen how he looked at me.

And I’d justified getting him to follow through because I could tell he wanted it and we were married. His faith had always been a strong part of him—and we’d had conversations about his determination to save sex for marriage. So when he offered marriage? I’d absolutely believed he was offering us both a way to get what we wanted most.

I sighed and slid the fat envelope off the table, then stood.

I walked lightly toward the hallway and peeked around the corner. His door was shut. Okay. That was good.

I hurried past his room and into mine, then closed the door and pressed the button in the knob to lock it. After a moment, I dragged the chair from in front of the desk across the floor and wedged it under the handle.

It was unlikely Tristan would do anything. But at this point, I didn’t feel like taking the chance.

I crossed to the bed and scooted so I sat against the headboard, my knees drawn up. I stared at the envelope. Finally, I pried the wings of the metal brad up and shook the packet of papers out onto the bedspread. I picked them up and scanned the first couple of lines before tossing them to the foot of the bed.

Divorce.

I swallowed and tears burned the back of my eyes. Which was ridiculous. This was the obvious move, and I shouldn’t be surprised—or hurt—that he was prepared.

But I was.

I wasn’t going to lie to myself. Seeing Tristan again on Friday had brought back all the feelings I’d squashed in high school and those six months that we lived together after our hasty marriage. He deserved so much better than anything I could offer him.

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