Page 71 of Release Me
Maybe he brought a date?
He tears his eyes from mine, scanning the crowd wildly like he’s looking for someone.
Man, I am such a douche.
What did I expect? Him to hang around and pine after me his entire life? The man is Dublin’s most eligible billionaire. He’s never going to be short of offers.
Heat floods my face. I feel like such a fool. But I can’t take my eyes off him. It’s like watching a bad car crash. I simply can’t tear myself away.
I follow his gaze, morbidly needing to torture myself with the face of the woman who gets to wake up to his every day. But it’s not a woman he’s staring at.
It’s my husband.
He’s leaning against the onyx bar with a glass of champagne in one hand and his PA’s ass in the other.
For fuck’s sake.
For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe.
The sight hits like a slap, hot and sharp. Rage crashes through me, swift and unrelenting, followed by a sickening wave of shame. Not because of what I’ve done—but because of him. He’s standing there in the middle of a packed club, fingers splayed possessively over Sorcha’s backside, a smuggrin curving his lips as if flaunting her is his birthright. People glance their way, curiosity flickering like camera flashes, and my stomach turns.
It isn’t just betrayal anymore; it’s humiliation served on ice in front of half of Dublin.
I told him I don’t give a flying fuck about his sordid affairs, so long as he doesn’t make me a fool.
And here he is, proving just how little my boundaries mean to him.
Something inside me clicks, sharp, clean and final.
The tears threatening behind my eyes dry up, replaced by a clarity so sharp it almost makes me smile.
If Anthony wants to parade his latest conquest for the world to see, fine. I’m done standing meekly on the sidelines while he writes every rule.
Tonight, I’ll write my own.
Starting with Rian Beckett.
Chapter Thirty-One
RIAN
Heat rips up my spine as fury detonates through every inch of me.
Anthony’s infidelity is a public execution of Rebekka’s dignity—inmyclub, of all places. He’s leaning on my bar like he owns the place, one hand cupping Sorcha’s backside while the other cradles a flute of champagne. The flashbulbs love it—photographers circle like sharks, glossy-mag hacks snapping away.
She knows he’s unfaithful, but she shouldn’t have to witness the shitshow of her marriage making the headlines for all the wrong reasons.
The urge to protect her pummels my chest.
I need to get her out of here.
And dispose of every single one of those cameras.
She deserves so much better.
My molars clench as I look back at her. She’s frozen, but even with the horror flickering across her features, she still looks utterly stunning. My mouth goes dry. My pulse thunders in my ears. Desire courses through me, battling for dominance over my disgust with her husband.
Her jade coloured eyes flick back to meet mine. Something shifts, subtle but fierce. Her horror seems to harden into steel. She tips her chin a fraction higher. Her eyes light with an unwavering determination I’ve only glimpsed before.
