Page 63 of The Billionaire's Wife

After a moment’s hesitation, I moved to her and pulled her into my arms. She was stiff and unyielding. “It’s a good thing. I think. I guess I should read it before I make any guarantees.”

Faith laughed. It was a short, shrill sound that belied any sense of humor.

“Hey.” I eased back. “It’s going to be okay. No matter what. Ortega called and the gist that he said is that I’m too high profile.”

Faith frowned. “You’re hardly high profile.”

I shrugged. “Not according to the IRS.”

“Oh.” Faith’s eyes brightened. “I guess they do like to keep track of the guys with all the cash, don’t they?”

“They do. Which means that I get a little too much governmental oversight—those might be his exact words—than he’s comfortable with. And you’re married to me, which means you’re in the same boat.”

“But…”

I waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, I prompted her, “But?”

Faith cleared her throat. “The papers. You wanted a divorce. I…I owe you that much.”

My heart sank into my stomach and my mind started to race. I was thankful, yet again, that the guys liked to play poker because my reaction didn’t immediately show on my face. After our weekend in Paris, I’d been hoping the topic of the papers never came up again. Not the most mature response, sure, but it felt like sometimes acting like things hadn’t happened was okay.

Apparently, she didn’t feel the same.

I hedged. “Let’s go sit down and read what it says.”

I didn’t wait for her to agree—or disagree—I just stepped past her and went into the living room. I plopped onto the couch and ripped open the top flap of the mailer, then drew out the packet of documents inside.

I glanced at the money order paperclipped to the front page and my eyes widened. That was not a small retainer.

“Is that money?” Faith perched on the edge of the couch beside me.

I nodded and unclipped the paper then handed it to her.

“This is a quarter of a million dollars!” Faith dropped the paper on the coffee table as if it burned her. “You can’t accept that. They’re just getting you even more under their thumb.”

Since I’d had a similar initial response, I didn’t refute her statement. Instead, I held up a finger and continued reading the first page of the document.

Honestly, Mr. Ortega had a pretty decent attorney on staff. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, but I was. This went beyond a standard nondisclosure agreement. And it was probably even enforceable—if only because the specific crimes Faith had been part of were outlined in detail in the pages. Neither she nor I would want this document being read in court.

He was banking on that.

It was going to pay off.

Thankfully, the terms were basically what he’d outlined in our phone call. The retainer provided attorney client privilege between me and the Ortegas. But it clearly spelled out the terms of Faith’s freedom.

“Well?” Faith stood and paced to the window then back. “Can you read aloud or something?”

I snorted. “You don’t want to hear a whole bunch of legalese, do you?”

“Not really. But also yes, if it means you’re going to talk to me.”

“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “It’s a decent document. It protects them, obviously, but you, also. As long as we’re married and neither of us talks about your prior work for them, they are considering your service to the Ortega family complete and relinquish all claims to your time or resources. We both need to sign and date the last page. When the money is deposited—I have to send them a screenshot verifying the deposit—and they’ve received the signed document, they’ll be out of your life.”

“I can’t sign that.” Faith shook her head. “It’s a nice idea, but I’m not going to do that to you.”

“Faith.”

“No.” She held up her hands. “I took advantage of your generosity when you were in college. I didn’t understand what you were giving up—I only thought of how it would help me. I can’t—I won’t—do that to you again.”

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