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He narrowed his eyes. “There’s more to it than that.”
Motherfucking warlock.
“You clearly don’t feel ready to let go of your anger yet, but ask yourself honestly—do you think I lied to you about the pictures? Do you think that was one big bullshit story I just told you?”
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say that his story didn’t add up or something. But I’d have been lying, and he’d have known that. I licked my lips and took a long breath. “No.”
“But you still want to walk out, don’t you?”
I gave a slow nod.
“Why, Vienna? Tell me.”
He was such a tenacious bastard. Knowing he wasn’t going to drop it, I decided to give him an understated version of the truth. “It bothered me a lot more than I thought it would.”
“What?”
“The thought of you with another woman.”
He frowned. “You think the thought of you with another man doesn’t bother me?”
“I don’t know, Dane. I just know that this whole situation is a lot more complicated than I’d expected it would be. I’m not a runner. I face things head-on, but … Look, I don’t think I’m the best person to play the part of your wife.”
“You’re the only person who I’d want to play it. We’ve come this far. No matter what shit went on around us, we forged ahead. We have to do that again now, Vienna, because I can’t let you walk out. You knew I wouldn’t.”
I’d known he wouldn’t let me go without a fight, because I was really his last hope of getting his hands on his trust fund. He didn’t have enough time to do the whole fake relationship thing with someone else—not if he wanted to make it seem realistic. Especially since he’d be expected to take a break between our “divorce” and the beginning of another relationship. He’d be forced to elope again and, yes, it would definitely look fake.
He reached out and cupped the side of my neck. “I need you, Vienna. I need you to trust me when I say I didn’t break my word. I need you to stay on board. You said you were in this until the end,” he reminded me.
I had, and I’d meant it. But now … now, well, nothing had really changed, had it? Because I did believe he hadn’t broken his word. Which meant he hadn’t really done anything to deserve my anger. I was directing it at the wrong person.
I was also being a little unfair. Whoever sent those pictures wanted to break us up. They could have as easily followed me around and took photos of me that would seem incriminating. If they had, I would have wanted Dane to hear me out. No, I’d have expected that he’d have had the common decency to hear me out. And if I’d properly explained the truth of the photographs but he’d still doubted my word or wanted to walk out on me, I’d have been pissed. Not to mention hurt that he’d think so little of me.
Dane wasn’t angry with me, though. He wasn’t telling me to be rational or to cut him a break. He was being uncharacteristically patient and understanding. And me? I was playing right into the hands of the person who sent the flash drive. They’d wanted to hurt me, and I’d let them have that power. Which was utterly stupid.
But wouldn’t it be just as stupid to stick around when I was clearly in far too deep with him? Wouldn’t it make much more sense to leave now? Or would that just be cowardly?
I’d never thought of myself as a coward. But as I stood there weighing whether or not to walk out on him, which would mean not only breaking my word but leaving the guy in the lurch, I felt somewhat gutless. My mother was the one who ran; who always put her own needs first and didn’t give a shit how her actions affected others.
Dane gently brushed my bangs aside. “When I can prove it was her, I will make Heather pay for this.”
I blinked. “Heather?”
His brows hiked up. “You think it’s a coincidence that I sent incriminating pictures to Thad’s wife—ruining Heather’s relationship with him in the process—and then you’re sent a flash drive on which there are photos of me that appear at first glance to be equally incriminating?”
Actually, I hadn’t made the connection. It would indeed seem like one massive unlikely coincidence. Still … “I can see why you’d think it was her, but this is not Heather’s style. She doesn’t do ‘low-key.’ She’d come to o-Verve and toss printouts of the pictures on my desk. She’d want us both to know how clever she was in finding you out. She’d want to see the hurt on my face; want others in the building to hear that you were screwing around on me.”
