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Chapter Thirty-Five
I leave Emery sleeping in our bed and grab a quick piece on my way out of the house. Mrs. Darroch is in the kitchen, so I inform her of my plan because it is no secret. Everyone will soon know what I've done, and I don't care. Graham Oliver must pay. Last night, after Emery fell asleep, I did something I never dreamed I would do. I visited the website of Graham's filthy scandal sheet and read the article he wrote about my wife.
Lies. All lies.
The headline screams, "Local Solicitor Marries Prostitute: Rory MacTaggart Buys a Wife to Satisfy His Deviant Needs." I donnae give a damn what he says about me, but my wife is off-limits. His so-called expose describes Emery as my "prostitute wife" and paints me as a sexual deviant of the worst sort. Where does he get this rubbish? I have never used chains on a woman unless her car got stuck in the snow. And that's the tame part of Graham's outlandish fictional tale of a sadistic solicitor and his slag wife.
Emery's ex-lover makes an appearance too. Graham quotes Sebastian Zegers as saying, "Get her in front of a camera, and she'll preen like a porn star."
I will hunt that bawbag down in whatever corner of Alaska he's hiding in and wring his slimy neck.
Somehow, Graham knows about the marriage contract and the prenuptial agreement, but those documents are kept in my home office. How he found that information, I can't imagine, but I will find out. The article also includes the photos he took of Emery, of course. Graham's defamatory bullshit wouldn't be complete otherwise. No wonder she was crying on the phone last night. Her worst fear has come to pass, and I wasn't even there to support her when she found out what Graham had done.
After letting Mrs. Darroch know that I'm driving into the village to confront Graham, I jump in the Mercedes and violate the speed limit so egregiously that I will most likely be arrested as soon as I reach my destination. I swerve around corners too fast, almost slide off the road twice, and finally arrive at the offices of The Loch Fairbairn World News.
World news, my erse. No one in the village or elsewhere on earth cares about Graham's rubbish.
But I care—because he hurt Emery.
I storm into Graham's office, halting inches from his desk, where he hunches in front of his computer. "I should throttle you, ye bleeding ersehole. Defaming an innocent woman? You've sunk to a new level of the filthiest pond on the planet, but that hardly surprises me."
Aye, my voice is honed to an edge sharp enough to slit his throat.
Graham sits back in his chair, hands slack on its arms, and gives me a nonchalant shrug. "I report the facts, MacTaggart. Look it up in the dictionary. F-A-C-T."
I thrust an arm across the desk to seize his shirt and hoist him out of his chair.
Graham's eyes widen, but only for a moment. Then his arrogance takes hold again, and the bod ceann sneers at me. "No one forced her to pose for pornographic pictures. Should've researched your bit of stuff before you married her to satisfy your deviant cravings."
"My deviant cravings?" I almost laugh, but I'm too incensed. "How do you know about the marriage contract?"
He shrugs again, smiling with smug satisfaction.
"Ye fucking bawbag," I snarl. "Donnae give a toss what ye say about me, but you will suffer for what you've done to my wife." I shake him hard. "Do ye hear me, Mr. Oliver?"
His smirk falters briefly.
I bare my teeth as I growl, "Tell me how you know about the contract."
The dangerous edge in my voice seems to convince him to confess.
"You left the door to your home office unlocked," Graham says, "on the day of your second wedding. The contract and prenup were right there, for anyone to find. Thank you for leaving your investigator's report on your desk too. Made my job much easier."
My fault, of course. I've spent so much time protecting myself from Emery that I failed to keep my wife safe.
I release Graham but keep leaning over the desk, my glare so hot that I feel quite sure Graham will get a sunburn from it. "Retract the story and apologize to my wife."
"Donnae think I will."
Just as I'm about to explain to this cacan what I can do to him, legally and physically, the door bursts open.
And my wife barrels inside.
Graham still has that self-satisfied look on his shriveled, yellow face.
My eyes narrow to slits, and my nostrils flare with every blustering breath. I snarl through tightly clenched teeth, my lip curling. "Last chance."
"I stand by the truth," Graham declares, folding his arms over his chest and lifting his chin.
