Page 7 of The Billionaire's Wife

Or that I could.

Being married to Tristan didn’t change anything.

And still, I couldn’t bring myself to say more than, “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Well, I guess that’s step one. Figure that out, then we can talk some more.”

I swallowed. I was glad he wasn’t immediately kicking me out. He absolutely could. No one would blame him. I certainly wouldn’t. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He sighed. “Do you want my opinion?”

“Of course.”

He shook his head slightly. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. But I think you need to go to the authorities. The FBI, I guess? Or maybe the DEA. I can research that. Come clean. Find a way to start a real life, not one that’s hidden in the shadows.”

The mental picture his words painted was one I wanted to grab with both hands and pull into being. What would it be like to have a life like that? One where I didn’t have to hide who I was. What I was. Where I was.

I honestly couldn’t quite imagine it.

“I’m not sure I know how to live like that.” The closest I’d ever gotten was the six or so months we’d lived together after we eloped. And we both knew how I’d handled that. “But it sounds like something I’d like to try.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Is that your choice?”

I wanted to hunch into a ball. I wasn’t in a place to make that big of a decision. Not right now. “Can I sleep on it?”

“Sure.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, but I caught the flash of disappointment on his face.

That was Tristan. He defined the straight arrow. And me? I was the complete opposite.

Opposites might attract, but that didn’t mean the relationships they ended up with were healthy for either of them.

3

TRISTAN

When the clock finally showed six a.m., I sat up. Six was a reasonable enough hour to get out of bed and give up on the ridiculous idea that I’d be getting sleep.

I’d spent the night alternating between fixation on the fact that Faith was here, in my condo, just a few steps away, and that she’d managed to get herself involved with the Ortegas. I didn’t know a ton about cartels and crime families, but the Ortegas? They made headlines. Everyone who could read—and probably anyone who couldn’t—knew about them.

It was so like her. Why get involved with a small, harmless cartel when she could find the biggest, bloodiest one instead?

Not that harmless and cartel went together, but the point stood regardless.

I pulled on workout clothes—not something I usually did on a Saturday morning—and then exited my room as quietly as possible. A quick glance showed Faith’s door was still shut. I was going to bank on that meaning she was in there, asleep, and not waiting to ambush me in the kitchen.

I wasn’t used to tiptoeing in my own place, but I made it work. The kitchen was dark and empty. Just like it should be. Like every part of my condo should be. I squeezed my eyes shut. I needed to get out of my head and stop being so resentful. I could have sent divorce papers any time in the last fourteen years. With a few exceptions, I’d known where she was—or been able to find her with some digging. The fact that I hadn’t explored how she was keeping herself afloat was on me. What would I have done about it? What could I have done about it?

She’d left me.

So really, what was I supposed to do? Run after her and beg?

I’d thought about it, sure. But at some point, wasn’t I entitled to keep a shred of my pride? I’d loved her before we married. She’d seen me as a way out.

Even knowing that, I’d gone through with it.

Of course, I’d thought we had time. That she’d hang around and see that I was worth loving back. That the two of us could make something of our lives. Together.

I blew out a breath.

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