Page 13 of Hunter

“I am, good night.”

***

Isabella

Hunter and I watch Ronan walk off down the hallway. When he disappears from view, I turn and glare at my husband.

“What do you want?”

“A conversation,” he replies. Every fiber of my being is screaming to send him away. This is not a good position to be in, alone with the man who shattered my heart. “Hear me out, and if we can’t come to an agreement, I’ll sign.” Uncertain but curious, I relent. If it means there’s light at the end of the tunnel, it may be worth speaking to him.

“I suppose you better come in.” He follows me in, turning and closing the door behind us. “Do you want a drink?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

The white wine sits on the coffee table. I grab another glass from the sideboard before pouring his drink and passing it to him. He takes it from me and lifts it to his lips, downing more than half. His strong throat muscles flex beneath his skin. I can’t help but watch.

“Thirsty?” I ask.

“Nervous.”

His reply surprises me, and I stop momentarily to look at him. Dressed in his sleek dark suit and crisp white shirt, with his hair twisted into a bun, he looks every inch the businessman. The long, dark wool coat he wears completes the sleek style.

I watch him tentatively as he places his glass down and shrugs out of his coat before sitting. After catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I am acutely aware that my appearance is much less put together and more like a mother at wine o’clock. But tits up, I’ve got this. He appeared here, unannounced; I won’t let him upset me. I take my drink and sit down opposite him.

“Talk,” I say, gesturing with my free hand for him to speak. He smirks, then presses his lips together as if to stop himself from saying something he shouldn’t. He takes his phone from his suit jacket pocket and passes it to me.

“Press play,” he says.

A video of CCTV footage appears on the screen. A man dressed in gym clothes is being manhandled from a doorway and then held against the wall at knifepoint by Hunter. There is no sound, but a struggle ensues then the victim runs off clasping his cheek.

“Why?”

“You haven’t seen it already?” he asks, surprised. I shake my head. “Everyone else in London has.”

“Why?” I repeat, wanting to keep the conversation short, to the point, and not show any unnecessary empathy.

“He was inappropriate with one of the cleaners at the gym. He needed to be taught a lesson.” I look from the phone to my estranged husband and back to the phone. “It perhaps was not the best method of education I decided to use. This footage has been leaked all over social media. It’s causing me what some may callbusiness issues.”

I pass him his phone back and fix him with a stare

“What has any of this to do with me?”

“I need your help,” he says, his expression open and honest. “I need you to be my wife. I need you to pose as Mrs. Devane. Accompany me to events. That sort of thing.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. How will that help?”

“My reputation is in tatters. If I can provide a solid image that will improve the situation, all will be forgotten.”

“You think parading me around the city will save your business,” I say sarcastically. “I know the sort of things you get up to; finally, all that shit is catching up.”

He shrugs, unruffled by my pushback.

“My lawyers and the PR company I hired think so. They’re the experts, so I’m happy to go along with their suggestion.”

“Well, I’m not!” I screech, shooting to my feet. “Sign the fucking papers and find some other woman to fill the role. I am sure there are plenty in the queue.”

He rises to join me, stepping forward into my space. His hand lifts to my cheek. As it connects with my skin, a jolt of electricity shoots through me, and he smiles. He felt it, too. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but his eyes only hold mine for a beat.

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