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“Anywhere,” I snap. “Except Jayson’s apartment,” I add through gritted teeth. On edge, I survey the garage, relieved to find no trace of Jayson as we exit the parking garage and join the flow of traffic. Once safely away from Satyros Corporation, I put up the privacy panel and have a good cry. As I wipe my eyes, I vow it’ll be the last time I cry over Jayson Satyros.
At my command, the chauffeur drives me aimlessly through the city for several hours, before I finally face the reality that I have to return to the apartment for my things. A confrontation with Jayson is likely inevitable. As we pull into the parking garage, I take a deep breath, bracing myself. With determination, I go to the elevator and ride it to the penthouse, refusing to carry on or betray any emotions to Jayson. I’ll handle this calmly, maturely, and with distant politeness.
I’ve learned that well with him.
My heart thuds in my ears when I open the door with my key, but I am pleased to see a composed young woman staring back at me when I look at myself in the mirror hanging on the wall near the entrance.
No sense in delaying the inevitable. Emotions firmly in check, I walk through the house, heading toward the study. I enter with a light knock, finding Jayson at his desk, as I had expected.
I didn’t expect him to look so disheveled. A half-empty decanter sits on the desk near his crystal glass, and he looks like he’s had a few. Perhaps he’s been bracing himself too. It must be difficult to tell your wife you want a divorce so you can marry your mistress — especially when ten percent of your company is at stake.
“Where have you been?” he asks in a slurred voice.
I blink at the realization he’s drunk. I’ve never seen him drink too much. Other than when I miscarried, I never saw Jayson appear less than fully in control of everything. “Out.”
“‘Out,’” he mocks, tossing back the rest of the liquid in his glass.
“I was thinking.”
Jayson slams the glass onto the desk. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you’re capable of thinking, agape mou.” The endearment sounds more like an attack. “I’ve seen scarce little evidence in the time we’ve been married.”
Anger stirs in my stomach, but I force it away. “We should talk.”
“Damn well right.” Jayson starts to stand, knocking his hand against the opened decanter and sloshing the alcohol everywhere. He collapses back into the chair.
With a deep breath, I say, “I meant what I said earlier. I don’t want anything from you. The stock in your company was never mine, even if I inherited it from my father.” I look down, thinking of him. “If you had just asked me not to sell the shares until the company could afford to buy them back, I wouldn’t have. There was no need to force us both into a marriage just to maintain control of the corporation.”
He glares at me. “I don’t know how many other ways to say this: I did not marry you for those damn shares. I married you for Sophie, and I am trying to stay married to you because — ” Jayson trails off, running a hand through his hair roughly. “Sit down.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk.
I want to refuse, but decide not to with his mood so volatile. As I perch on the edge of the chair, I’m eerily reminded of the night when I sat here more than three years ago, when Jayson first suggested the preposterous idea of us marrying.
“Here.” Jayson lifts a stack of papers from a drawer and slides them across to me.
“What’s this?”
“Read it.”
I scan the first few paragraphs, eyes widening as the words sink in. “What…”
“And this.” With a flourish, he produces another stack of paper and feeds it into the shredder.
“What’s that?”
“The damned marriage contract. The gesture is mostly symbolic, I suppose, but I want to make the point.”
“Which is?”
Jayson drops into his chair. “That there’s nothing binding you to me. No legal agreement keeping us together. There is no requirement for you to stay.”
I flinch at his words as my gaze drops to the papers. More confused than ever, I say, “If you don’t want to stay married, why are you giving back my shares?”
Jayson looks at me through bloodshot eyes. “I want to stay married, Harper, but I don’t want to have trapped you. I got you pregnant with the intention of making you stay married to me.”
I gasp. “That’s not true.”
He nods, looking miserable. “It is. The night you made that offhanded comment at the party, the idea took hold. I knew if I could get you pregnant, you’d have to stay with me. I deliberately didn’t use protection w
henever you were too…excited to notice.” His shoulders droop. “I had no idea that I would give you a baby that wouldn’t live.”
