The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(6)

He scowls at the amusement on my face, and his green eyes blaze. That nerve that throbs at his temple is joined by a vein. The muscles of his shoulders bunch. He looks like he’s going to burst out of his shirt any moment. Would that make him Knight Hulk? My lips quirk. Don’t laugh. Do. Not. Laugh. Instead, I say, "It’s not good to bottle all that rage inside, you know. It can lead to an early grave." The words are out before I can stop them. Oh, my gawd! What’s wrong with me?

I lick my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth. Something flashes in those dark eyes. Something that sends a pulse of heat shooting through my veins. I shift my weight from foot to foot.

"Uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to talk about dying again. Honestly, especially because—"

He abruptly turns away from me, ducks his head in the car, slides inside and pulls the door shut. The car drives off, leaving me gaping after him. What the— He drove off? And without saying a word to me? Did I mistake that flash of lust in his eyes earlier? There’s no mistaking the hate I glimpsed there, of course. He doesn’t like me—I sensed it in the room, and the way he glowered at me, you’d think he had something personal against me. Except for the fact I’ve only ever seen the man once before today. Which begs the question: Why did I feel so compelled to follow him out?

"What are you doing out here?"

I turn to find my friend Mira walking toward me.

"I— uh—" A gust of wind blows the hair back from my face. A chill of foreboding slithers down my spine. "I—uh—thought I forgot something."

"You mean this?"

She holds up a bag. I stare at it for a second, then realization sinks in. "Yes, exactly. I forgot my handbag." I take it from her and hook it over my shoulder.

"You ready to leave?"





"You’re no longer training to be a chef?" Mira takes a sip of the hot chocolate, then places the mug on the tiny breakfast counter which demarcates the living room from the kitchenette. We shared a ride here and decided to have a drink and decompress. Neither of us wanted to go out, so we opted to come back to Mira’s tiny apartment. When my last landlord asked me to leave with less than a month’s notice, Mira—who’d been looking for a flat mate—asked me to move in, and I agreed.

"Turns out, the hours are too long, the pay is shit when you’re starting out, and not much better later, and you don’t even get weekends free." I glance down into the depths of my herbal tea. Why the hell did I choose chamomile? I hate the taste, but it’s supposed to be soothing, and I could do with a little of that right now. I squirm around on the bar stool, trying to find a more comfortable space.

Mira looks at me with curiosity. "You okay?"

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You look a little peaked."

"It’s the changing weather. Summer into autumn, the days drawing to an end earlier. I mean, I do like the turning of the leaves, but I much prefer when it’s warm and sunny."

"Hmm…" She taps her fingers on the table. "You’re a shit liar."

"I’m not lying. I do prefer when it's warm and sunny. " I take a sip of the chamomile tea and almost gag.

She looks at me skeptically. "You don’t have to drink that, you know."

"I do." I hunch my shoulder. "My ma always used to say there was nothing chamomile tea couldn’t make better."

Her gaze softens. "How is she doing?"

"Well, she recognized me the last time I saw her, so it was a good day." The slippery sensation of chamomile fills my mouth, and I force myself to swallow it. Maybe the more I do the things I don’t like, the more God will reward me with the things I want. It’s a strange logic, but one that has been drilled into me, thanks to the nuns who ran the school I attended. The same nuns who forbid swearing and thinking about sex and boys. It was a strict upbringing, but a happy one.

For all the singing of religious hymns at morning assembly, and the talk of sacrifice, it was an innocent, carefree childhood. My father passed when I was fifteen, and my mother picked up a second job. She ensured I never wanted for anything and was my best friend. Growing up, I remember my mom always keeping lists so she wouldn't forget things. She'd say, "I have a lot on my mind. I can't be expected to remember everything."

After my father’s passing, she became more absent-minded, forgetting where she left her lists, sometimes forgetting to even make one. On occasion, I’d notice her hands shaking as she made dinner, but she always had a ready explanation. She was too tired. She was missing my father and coming to grips with it. Work had been stressful, etcetera, etcetera. I never pushed her for an explanation, as involved as I’d been with my own changing body and hormones, and then the race to get accepted into college. Then, I came home one day to find her searching for something she'd given away long ago. Concerned, I persuaded her to see a doctor, just for a general check-up, and she was diagnosed with early-stage dementia.

I was eighteen and had won a scholarship to study drama at UCLA. I wanted to put off going to university so I could support her, but she insisted I go. By the time I completed my degree, her dementia was advanced. I’d been offered a role in a play in London. She refused to let me turn it down. Instead, she spent her lifesavings moving from America to be with me.