Page 191 of Bona Fide

? What Lies Beneath — Breaking Benjamin ?

“The car isready when you are, sir,” Mitchell drones, hands clutched together, which shows off his broad shoulders and no-bullshit demeanor. I nod at him through my mirror, adjusting my black bow tie and making sure the chaos running through my head doesn’t spatter all over my white dress shirt.

I’m a fucking disaster.

A walking crisis of animosity and concern, a broken cause ever since I left Reagan in Wyoming with her brother, mother, and a dozen of my security guys of all sizes and ages to blend in.

I can’t say that I’m not frantic and anxious to get this over with. To throw all my cards out there to crucify Demi and fall on my knife right beside her. The irony of our relationship is that we’ll both suffer and succumb together. We’ve both been keeping each other alive; paying her allowance to keep her in Paris, happy, out of my fucking life. While she preserved my secrets to let my career take off. This is deranged warfare, and I believe that no matter how I play my stakes, Demi and I will both be slain.

“Mr. President, the First Lady is ready,” Francis chimes, entering my room to stand next to Marshall.

“Thank you.” I give myself one more glance over and turn on my heels to find Demi squeezing through the door between my two men.

Her blue eyes hit me the moment she’s through, emotionless and monotone when she says, “We need to talk.”

No, we don’t.

I’m emotionally spent. I had to give Reagan a gun to protect herself in case this bitch in front of me decides to assassinate her, my brother and sister are in for a rollercoaster ride of political bullshit because of the things she has done, and I’m ten seconds away from dropping a nuke on the next country that decides to open their mouth with a threat.

Not a good look.

“Can we talk in the car?” I press. “We’re going to be late.” I swipe my coat hanging off one of my leather chairs, but she doesn’t move to follow me.

So, we’re going to do this now.

I let out a silent sigh and bow my head to Mitchell and Francis to give us a private moment. Demi doesn’t give a fuck if it makes us look like a bunch of morons showing up to an event late, as long as she gets her two cents in, she’ll do it.

“What is it?” I snap, shoving my hands into my sleeves. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I want a divorce.” I suspend my other arm from going all the way through my sleeve for a moment before resuming.

“A divorce, huh.” She nods, folding her hands together in front of her emerald-colored dress. The pacified look that she’s displaying does nothing for her. I’m not sure how many times we have to go through this, but she’s playing it for the wrong audience. I know her and her fucked-up games like the back of my hand.

“Yes,” she replies. “We don’t love each other anymore, and I’m looking to move on with my life.” I press my lips together and cock my head to the side.

She knows I’ve wanted this for years but never once budged to give me what I wanted. Fully aware that she’d tried to walk away with half my shit, expose every one of my secrets while she got to walk away looking like the humble victim. But I’m not looking to sink in the pits of hell without her. She wanted to be fully and completely part of my life with the title of wife, she’s going to be with me during the conclusion as well.

“That’s it?” I inquire, adjusting the lapels of my jacket.

“Yes, and, of course, the normal things that come along with it.”

“I believe your definition of normal and what’s specified in the Webster dictionary are two very different things. So what is it that you want from me?” I shove my hands into my pockets and wait for her to grow the balls she needs to express what part of her story she wants to feed me and what the real plan is behind closed doors with her and the Russian.

Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t know that I know about him. Thinks I’m going to just let her walk away without a scrape to her name where she gets to walk off into the sunset and become some goddess over in Russia.

It’s cold, she’ll fit right in, but the problem is she doesn’t like being told what to do or follow any sort of direction.

“I want half of everything.”

“Alright. Won’t be much off my governor salary but—”

“We both know that you have more than that. And I’m looking for my share.”

“Your share of what exactly? You weren’t around for years, and I paid you an allowance that you didn’t deserve. You won’t be getting half of anything else but that.”

Her jaw ticks at my answer. “We’ll let a judge decide that.”

The corners of my lips quirk. “Absolutely.” She eyes me suspiciously and, I’m sure, ponders what I have going on in my head.

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