Page 67 of Ruthless Wars

The text is from Corey, hopefully with the smoking-gun evidence we can use to nail Simone to the fucking wall. Whatever it is, the attachment is damn near impossible to read on my phone, even with the reading glasses I deny I need. But it’s easy enough to send it to the printer so I can get a better look at the microscopic font.

I’m faced with two documents. One is in English, but the other is in another language I’m not familiar with because I’m really not familiar with any other languages at all. That’s me. Unilingual.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—they seem to be the same, with one being the English translation of the other. And from the looks of it, Margot Long isn’t the person I thought she was.

Or should I say, Margot Long-Rodriguez.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Margot

It’s the end of a hectic day, and I’m exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. Announcing my move to step down as acting CEO of Long Multinational was the next logical step with the teams’ closing of negotiations, and Jaclyn’s return. Besides, being a puppet master is more fun from behind the scenes, though I’ll miss seeing Evie and Jean every day.

And it’s only been a few days since Coop and I have had any real time together, but the stretch feels a lot longer.

By the time I reach his office, the door is open wide and waiting for me. But in an odd way I can’t put my finger on, it isn’t warm or terribly inviting. Or rather, Coop isn’t terribly warm or inviting.

Sitting on the edge of his desk, he’s holding a sheet of paper in each hand. When he looks up, his eyes lock with mine with a hardness I can’t place, his expression the polar opposite of his texts.

“Is everything all right?” I ask, even though it’s obvious it’s not. “Is Alli okay?” I have to ask, despite being absolutely certain that whatever’s holding him ten feet from me has nothing to do with Allison and everything to do with us.

“Margot,” he says, a strange air of disappointment in his tone. “I just came across some information.”

“I see,” I say, letting my exhaustion get the better of me. “You want to share this big reveal? Or should I play twenty questions against the Arctic chill you’re blasting my way.”

“I think I was clear. It’s one thing to have secrets. It’s another to have secrets between us.” His words are cold, hard, and accusatory.

Wary, I slowly say, “Okay,” not disagreeing with anything so far.

He circles me before handing over the two pieces of paper in his hands. “Are you or are you not married?”

Fear swallows me, and I frantically scan the documents—in English and in German. It’s a report of some sort on my marriage to Roddie, but the English is clear. German isn’t my strongest language, and gets worse every year, so I’m not catching every word on the page that says I’m not yet divorced. But the divorce was finalized.

At least, I thought it was finalized. It should have been finalized.

“Wow,” Coop says incredulously as he snatches the pages back. “You don’t even have a simple answer to a basic question. Margot, for the love of God, are you married?”

Blinking hard, I answer as honestly as I can in the moment. “I ... I don’t know.”

“How do you not know? Because I know that I’m not married. And I’m pretty sure most of the world knows whether or not they’re married. Jesus, Margot, are you seriously telling me all this time, the woman I’ve been falling for—shared my life with, slept with—has only been fucking around?”

I want to defend myself. Explain. Tell him how two people that I love are depending on me.

But I can’t.

I won’t betray their secret, not even to Coop. So, I stand here saying nothing, looking guilty as hell—and for all I know, I am guilty as hell.

“Margot, you accused me of being a player. And a manwhore. You—the woman who can’t tolerate lies—are you seriously looking me in the eyes and saying you might be married?”

When I say nothing, he snaps, “Answer me.”

The darkness that consumes Coop’s eyes as he stares back at me isn’t lust. Or love. It’s a million other feelings that make me realize whatever closeness, or intensity, or heat that we shared has vanished.

Like cold embers after a raging flame from the night before, there’s nothing there. Nothing but his hard glare and my silence, and a stubborn tear I can’t manage to blink away.

The floor seems to fall from beneath me as I hear him—so emotionless and cold—utter three words that seem so final, they steal the breath from me.

“Get out, Margot.”

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