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“Truce.” I hold my palms up. “I know you know more than I do. That’s clear to everyone within a hundred-mile radius. And though we didn’t start on the right foot, it’s also clear that we’re both in the middle of a shit storm, so now would be a good time to excuse my manners and piece together what happened here.”
“No,” she says decisively.
I stare at her, transfixed. “Excuse me?”
“I won’t do it.” She folds her arms over her chest. “You can’t go around treatin’ people like they’re dirt, Mr. Corbin. No matter how much money you’ve got in your bank account. Apologize first.”
You little sh . . .
“My sincerest regrets.” I bow with deliberate exaggeration. “I’m a thorny man used to getting away with deplorable behavior. I’ll think twice before opening my big mouth and taking out my wrath on people from now on. Can we move on?”
She sucks in a breath, nodding.
“Good. Now tell me everything.”
“Paul bought two tickets to Paris at the beginning of the month. It was supposed to be a romantic getaway. A reset button . . .” She hesitates, not wanting to unravel too much. “A chance for some one-on-one quality time.”
At the word Paris, the full weight of the betrayal crashes into me. Grace went with Paul to the most romantic city in the world. Alone. It doesn’t take a genius to know they intended on enjoying more than the local pastries and champagne.
I nod encouragingly. “And?”
“I told him I couldn’t come. I’d just landed my first theater gig. It was a big deal for me. Tonight was my first show. I’m Belle from Beauty and the Beast.” She smooths a hand over her stupid dress, like it’s her most beloved possession. A tear slides down from her cheek, to her neck, and onto the dress.
This dress will forever be sullied with her tears. The role tarnished with this moment, this place, this scene. Just like I’ll never be able to drive by this hospital again without thinking of Grace. Our lives are about to change forever.
I say nothing, letting her continue.
“Paul couldn’t cancel the hotel reservations, so he asked if I’d mind if he took one of his college friends, Phil. I know Phil. He was his best man and always comes over to watch baseball games. I told him to go for it . . .” She trails off.
She doesn’t have to say it out loud. The rest is abundantly clear. Paul didn’t take Phil. He took Grace. And they were caught red handed. Only now they aren’t here to face the consequences of their actions. My feelings veer dangerously from the Good, fuck them lane, to Why did you have to get on that plane, Grace? Wasn’t I enough?
“Why didn’t you tell them that?” I demand, looking to channel my anger at someone who is here, who is present, who is alive. “The officers.”
Fresh tears fill Winnifred’s eyes, and her nostrils flare. “I’m not jumping to conclusions. I trusted Paul.”
“Clearly he misused this trust to spend the weekend screwing my fiancée.”
“Maybe she caught a ride with him and had other business in Paris. We don’t know what happened there, and I’m not going to have his name tainted like that.” She tips her chin up.
She is still loyal to him, and that drives me nuts because the asshole not only cheated on her, but he did it with my goddamn future wife.
I want to shake the naivete out of her like she’s a piggy bank.
Then it dawns on me. She has a role to play. The devoted, loving wife. The one who will later get the fat insurance check and the sympathy. It’s not that Winnifred doesn’t believe Paul and Grace had an affair—it’s that she doesn’t give a damn.
She probably didn’t care who this white bread of a man screwed as long as she had access to his credit cards when he was alive.
“Believe what you wanna believe.” I screw the soles of my palms to my eye sockets. “It’s not my job to drag you kicking and screaming into the realms of reality, Belle.”
“Your version of reality is askew, anyway, Beast.” She huddles on the other side of the room and plasters her forehead against the wall.
I let out a bark of laughter. “Did you just call me a beast?”
“Yes, but I take it back,” she bites out. “The Beast redeems himself. You would never!”
“How was Paul not arrested for marrying you?” I wonder aloud. “You’re mentally twelve.”
“Well, no one forced you to talk to me!” she hits back. Her accent is thicker than ever when she’s angry. “Stay on your side of the room, and leave me the heck alone.”
We are both shells of our former selves. I know exactly why I’m broken—I just lost the love of my life, or the closest thing to one I’d ever have. But what’s her excuse?
