Page 22 of One Wealthy Wedding

“It feels silly to even write this one down, but we might as well.” I point at the page.

“Don’t catch feelings,” he says. He nods. “Good to have it out in the open. We aren’t children anymore.”

“Right.” I nod, gazing into his light green eyes, even as my stomach crumples. “We had a youthful indiscretion.”

His face hardens. What right does he have to be angry? He walked away from us. Not me. I waited for him. And when I showed up at the party he invited me to, he was there, with a girl on his lap and not a care in the world. I stared at him for a full minute, my lungs compressing, until I realized that I would never be enough for him.

Buck up, Cat. No more looking for approval in the least likely of places. I cut that pathetic part of myself out at age seventeen, when I was self-possessed enough to realize my parents would never love me the way I wanted them to. You don’t get to have a soft gooey center in the Peterson household.

“You’ll have a wing of the house. I’ll go about my business. You go about yours,” he says.

“What if people ask why we’re not sharing a bed?” Even asking the question is awkward.

“There’s no one who will know.”

“You don’t have staff?”

“No, Catherine,” he says, putting unwelcome emphasis on my name, “I don’t have help, as your parents used to say.”

“I never called it that.”

“Didn’t stop you from taking advantage of it.” He shrugs, but his eyes are hard.

I could argue, but why bother? The friend I had is gone, and I’m done. Done hoping for people to change. Done looking for love and never finding it. You have to make your own way. The only person I can rely on is me. And if I’d hoped for a friend across the dinner table? Well, that’s too damn bad. When I’m CEO of Peterson International, I won’t be lonely. I’ll be laughing from the top.

So instead of crying, I calmly say, “Which wing? I’d prefer the south. I hear you have a separate zip code for the north and south sides of the building, and I think that could work nicely for the separation agreement.”

“What?” he bites out.

“The separation agreement.” I smile placidly at him. “I assumed we’d sign one today. You need to be legally separated for a year before you get divorced in New York, you know. You didn’t look this up? You really should have done some research before saying yes.” I frown at him.

“I’ll have one prepared.” He’s annoyed that I thought of this first. Ha.

“It’s going to look odd in the agreement if we’re living at the same address, so separate zip codes might be the best we can do,” I continue. “Unless you want to give me one of your vacation homes? You have a few, don’t you?”

“That won’t work. I need you by my side. And I need the houses too.” His grin is a white flash of teeth.

“Ah. You need them.” For partying. Or womanizing. Wrestling wild animals or having foursomes in his pool. I don’t want to think about Theo having a foursome, but now my brain circles the image like water going down a drain. Theo’s built like a professional athlete. He could handle a foursome. And now I’m picturing those broad shoulders bared in the sun, those lean hips working, his impossibly soft mouth parting. Fuck.

I should not be picturing my husband naked. He hates me.

“Problem?” His face says he knows what I was thinking about.

“No problem.” I shrug. “It just means I’ll have to bring hookups back to the mansion.”

His lips flatten. “Hookups?”

“You know. Men I meet when I’m out with friends. We could have a code if you want. I could leave a sock on the 5th Avenue side door.” I’m such a liar. I haven’t dated in years, and I barely hook up now that my main concern is staying afloat.

“A sock,” he says flatly.

“Have I shocked you, sweetheart?” The sweetheart is saccharine and completely disingenuous.

“Nah,” he drawls. “Just wondering if I could convince any of my guests to leave a bra on the door. La Perla doesn’t do well out in the elements. Though I guess I could buy them more.” His tongue prods his cheek like he’s imagining buying lingerie for every woman he’s ever brought home. “Wouldn’t want you walking in on us. Unless you want to join in?”

My breath catches. He smirks at me.

“If I want mediocre sex, I can go on an app.”

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