Page 11 of The Saint

“Then let me take care of you.” It would be different if she were passionate about her job and it meant something to her, but working as an assistant to some suit was not fulfilling. “My woman should not be working—unless it means something to her. I know for a fact this job is just a means to an end—means you no longer need.”

Her eyes moved out the window, and she sighed. “I don’t want to fight.”

“We aren’t fighting.”

“What about you? Do you like working?”

I smiled because the question was ridiculous. “You think I still need money?” She’d seen my house, seen the funds that my investment company earned, billions of dollars. And she thought I was a slave to the clock? “I’m in the game because I was born in it, and I’ll die in it. Because the power and the adrenaline give me a fucking rush like nothing else—not even you.”

She stared at me for a while before she grabbed her water and took another drink.

My stare was locked on her face like a laser from a sniper.

She was in an invisible corner with nowhere to go, but she still tried to find a way out.

“When I asked you to move in with me, I asked you to be the woman of the house. The woman who waits for me to come home. The woman on my arm for every dinner and social event. The woman who isminein every sense of the fucking word.” I didn’t raise my voice, but I felt the raw frustration burn in my chest. “I want to take care of you—so let me do my fucking job.”

“I said I don’t want your money?—”

“I understand,” I snapped. “But I want to give it to you anyway, so just let me.”

We’d been arguing for so long that the waiter arrived with our food. He placed the dishes in front of us, probably aware of the tension that was tighter than a taut rope because he didn’t say a word before he walked off.

She looked down at her food but didn’t seem interested in it. “Maybe we should have talked about this before I moved in.”

“You should have assumed all of this before you moved in. What is the problem, Fleur?”

She was quiet for a while, her eyes still on her plate so she wouldn’t have to look at me. “The last time I was financially dependent on a man, he cheated on me and I had to start over with nothing. No education or resources or?—”

“You might as well just slap me in the fucking face.”

She lifted her gaze to look at me. “My feelings have nothing to do with you, Bastien.”

“You were left with nothing because you refused to take half of the estate, which you were fully entitled to. Let’s not forget that.”

“He was the one who built all that wealth.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter, Fleur. And your feelings do have to do with me, because right now, in this fucking moment, you’re with me, not him, and you don’t trust me. You don’t trust that this relationship will be different from your last one.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you?—”

“Then prove it.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing the fabric of her sweater as she stared at the food we probably wouldn’t eat. “Okay.” She lifted her chin and looked at me, her eyes still timid. “I’ll quit.”

It was what I wanted, but not in the way I wanted it. I didn’t want to have to fight for it.

“I don’t want to fight. I’m so happy with you.”

My anger still burned beneath the surface, a simmer after the boil.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, because I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

My anger started to ebb, to slowly dissipate because I could hear her sincerity.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re rich or because you’re powerful.”

My eyes narrowed on her face.

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