Page 47 of Mistletoe Missus
“Well, I’m glad you never let that asshole touch you,” Holly admitted.
“Me too.” I sighed after the shock wore off and Mitt’s face re-entered my mind. “They’ll get what’s coming to them and so will my husband.”
Operation Divorce was in full force.
WE FOUND THE PERFECTpurchase. Something pretty, white, and flashy. The ideal beauty to set Mitt off to get him to crumble. To bend to my will, be in my control, and grant me the end of our marriage.
A car. Not just any vehicle, but one with a big price tag. One of the most expensive in the world.
A Rolls-Royce Droptail worth thirty million dollars.
Mitt was going to flip. I couldn’t wait to see his face and hear the rage in his voice. The sound would be music to my ears, and I’d drive my new car away from here, never turning back.
Besides, I had always dreamed of owning a luxurious, fast-paced machine, like any other person. A goddess on four wheels with the option to ride with the roof down and my hair blowing in the wind. The vehicle comes straight from England with leather seating and extensive use of wood trim. Designers described the ride as extravagant, drawing inspiration from yachts and hot rods. My new set of wheels would please my husband, and he would be over the moon to watch me drive away in it, never to return.
I couldn’t wipe the smirk off my face as I waltzed into Mitt’s bank the next morning and headed straight for the line. I’d never made a purchase of this measure, and I pondered if they’d question it. The thought went away because I was Mitt Morgan’s wife, and I had money at my fingertips. Billions of it.
“How can I help you?” a bank teller asked, but never looked up.
“I’d like to make a business purchase on behalf of my husband,” I answered.
“How much?” She questioned as her fingers typed on the keyboard in front of her.
I paused.
Suddenly, I was anxious. My hands grew clammy, and I was ready to turn around. This was a bad idea, and I never should’ve agreed to this.Abort the mission. Abort!
“How much, Mrs....” She glanced up and back down until she did a double take. “Mrs. Morgan?”
Stay confident. Play the part. I could do this. I should act as if I was rich, entitled, and spoiled to the core.
“That’s right. Mr. Morgan is my husband.”
Thanks to the tabloids, my ass was back on track. My nerves flew out the window, and I was back in the driver’s seat. I was ready to make a payment for my brand-new car.
“Thirty million dollars.”
“Excuse me?” the bank teller questioned.
“I need to make a purchase for thirty million dollars.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And what are you buying?”
“A Rolls-Royce,” I answered as I handed her the receipt for the car and tried to keep a steady hand.
She peered down at the paper and raised an eyebrow. “And your husband is aware of this?”
I giggled. “Why, of course he is. He’s my husband.”
God. I had turned into a good liar.
“The car’s in your name?” she questioned as she glanced up at me and then back at her computer screen.
“Yes, it is. My husband wants us to take it on a cruise for his next business trip,” I explained, as I clapped my hands together and pretended I was a lovesick idiot. “Isn’t he romantic?”
“Very,” she muttered with a smile.
I batted my eyes at her like a loony person, but she didn’t pay attention, and her fingers clicked away at the keyboard. I cut the crap because she didn’t give a shit and neither did I. She probably saw this a lot. Rich wives coming in and flaunting all the money their husbands had while they worked behind a desk.
