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What now?
“Jules.” Smiling at him, Dad pats his shoulder. “Good to see you looking well.”
He doesn’t look well. He looks heartbroken. But maybe I’m missing the bigger picture there too.
“Francis. Benedict.”
“Julian.” Benedict nods as he and my father leave the office.
Glancing at me as the door shuts, Julian remains frozen in the middle of the office.
“What’s going on? Henry said it was urgent.”
He starts toward my desk as I shuffle some of the files that were waiting for me.
“I need divorce papers drawn up.”
Coming to a sudden stop, he stands a couple of feet from my desk. “For who?”
“Who do you think?” I don’t bother looking up to see the expression on his face. I already know what it’ll look like. Pity. Shock. Disappointment. Trepidation.
“If it’s a problem, I can go to someone else.” I don’t doubt for a second that he’s warring with himself over his loyalty to Arabella. Even if it’s because of his sentiments toward Kit, his dead boyfriend.
“It’s not a problem.”
“Good. The sooner you can have them done, the better. No point in dragging these things on.”
Chapter 8
Arabella
There’s something in the air. It feels too thick and congested as I walk up the concrete steps to Heath House. The security on duty tonight opens the door as I reach the top step. His eyes skim me from top to toe, and when I take my coat off to reveal the little black dress beneath it, he gives me a nod to walk through.
The place is very particular on the dress code. The clientele it hosts doesn’t do casual often.
“Good evening, Mrs. Sinclair,” the hostess at the front desk announces loudly.
“Arabella,” I tell her one more time. All the other girls seem to have gotten the message. Not this one though. No, she likes to live up to the blonde bimbo stereotype.
“My apologies.”
Whatever.
Adjusting the short hem of my dress, I walk through the small passage to the bar. The air feels too tightly packed into the place. My hair sticks to my neck as sweat begins to mist my clammy skin.
It’s ludicrous for it to be this warm; the place is practically empty. In fact, apart from the bartender, there is nobody here. Thursdays are normally the busiest nights. People can’t wait for Friday to see the weekend in.
Folding my coat on top of the bar, I take a better look about the room. Maybe I missed something?
“Tonic?” Peter asks with his usual smile. He’s waiting for the day that I give him friendlier answers.
Today isn’t that day.
“Please.”
“Solo tónico?” Only tonic?
“Yes.”
