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I blink. I haven’t been to the building in years, since before this woman had started working here. “Do I know you?” Had we met at a company function, and I’ve forgotten?
The blonde shakes her head with a smile. “No, ma’am. I recognized you from the pictures in Mr. Satyros’s office.”
“Oh.” I don’t know how to respond to that. He keeps pictures of me? Why? I glance at her name plate and ask, “May I pop in for a moment, Kelly?”
She frowns slightly. “He’s with someone, Mrs. Satyros.”
Her tone sets the hairs on my neck upright. “Who?”
The other woman hesitates, which speaks volumes. I don’t wait for her reply. I ignore Kelly calling after me as I turn and walk toward Jayson’s office. With more force than I intend, I twist the knob and push, slamming the door against the wall. Family pictures of Jayson, Sophie, and me catch my attention momentarily. Focusing my gaze on Jayson, I’m unsurprised to find Maia standing beside him. The other woman leans against him, her lips near enough his that they could’ve been kissing just a millisecond earlier.
Jayson looks up, going pale. Maia turns toward me, smirking with satisfaction as she trails a finger down his chest. My husband’s chest.
“You whore.” I toss the envelope full of emails in their direction. “That is my husband you’re pawing.”
“Not for long,” coos Maia.
“Maia.” Jayson sounds angry. No doubt he is — angry that I’ve caught him with his mistress.
“I agree,” I say with surprising calm. I turn to Jayson. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Jayson, and I really don’t care. If this is about the stock, you can keep it. You can have everything, including the settlement stipulated in the marriage contract.”
“Harper…” He finally steps away from Maia, reaching toward me.
I jerk away, hissing vehemently, “Don’t touch me. I don’t want your filthy, lying, cheating hands on me.” Turning on my heel, I almost collide with a shocked Kelly, but sidestep her at the last moment. “Excuse me,” I say with ridiculous politeness and walk around the other woman.
“Wait, Harper,” Jayson shouts behind me. I speed up, in no mood to face him right now. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, and the sodden lump in my throat won’t allow me to talk, anyway. I refuse to cry in front of him. He’s seen enough of tears. He’s caused enough of them, too.
And I’ve wasted too many on him.
I reach the elevator with Jayson still following. I stab the “Close” button repeatedly, and it shuts before he makes it to the door. The ride down seems to take forever, and I rush out as soon as the doors open. Running, I make it to the limousine and climb inside before the driver even realizes I’m back. “Drive,” I say breathlessly.
“Where, Mrs. Satyros?”
“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.”
