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I think I might throw up.
In the end, Kinsley agreed to take seventy-five million pounds in exchange for her signature on the divorce paperwork and a verbal agreement that she won’t she’ll only have supervised visitation with Isla whenever it’s convenient for me.
The deal was—is—necessary.
As long as that damn sex tape is still out there, Kinsley and James still have way too much bargaining power. At least I’ll only have to deal with one of them after today.
Still, it feels like I’m making a deal with the devil.
It’s one thing to write the occasional check to my ex so she can finance her drink-and-drug-fueled lifestyle. It’s another thing to hand her a literal fortune on a silver platter.
The intercom next to me buzzes and my secretary makes the announcement I’ve been dreading. “Your wife is here, Lord Grayrose.”
Not my wife for much longer, thank fucking God.
“Send her in,” I answer, straightening my jacket and clutching the check behind my back as my soon-to-be ex saunters in. She’s wearing a fur coat and a sapphire broach that almost certainly came from my mother’s jewelry collection. I can’t help but idly wonder if Mother loaned it willingly or if she still doesn’t know it’s missing.
“Do you have the check?” she asks, looking around warily as if I might be trying to trick her. “I don’t have a lot of time to waste on you today, Keir.”
I force a smile, mainly because I know how much it irritates her. “Always a pleasure to see you, too, darling.”
She rolls her eyes and holds her hand out to me. “The check?”
I nod toward the papers on my desk. “Sign the papers first. Once I get your signature in all the appropriate places, you can have this.” I hold up the signed check so she can see it. “You should probably hurry. You don’t have a lot of time to waste on me, remember?”
She walks over and signs the first stack of papers, then the next. “You know I never loved you, right?” She tosses out the question so casually that she could have easily been asking about the weather or what I had for breakfast. “I only married you because my parents forced me into it. And for the money, of course.”
“Of course,” I shrug.
I don’t love her, either, but her words still sting for some reason. Maybe because I thought I was in love with her back when we first got married. I was younger back then, and young people have a habit of doing stupid things.
Regardless, I’m not going to give her the reaction she’s no doubt hoping for.
“Done,” she says, tossing the pen she was using back onto my desk and holding out her hand again. “Now give me the check.”
I almost make her say please, just to be a dick.
“And you’ll drop the custody thing?” I ask instead. “Give me your word, Kinsley.”
She waves me away, already apparently bored with the conversation. “I said I would drop it and I will.”
It isn’t the assurance I want, but it’ll have to be good enough for now. I hand over the check and usher her back out the door without saying another word.
Only after she’s gone and I’m alone again do I lean against the door frame and scrub a hand down my face. That horrible chapter of my life is officially closed.
Shouldn’t I be happy? Shouldn’t I be celebrating? Why do I still feel so shitty?
Isla’s sad face is making my heart hurt, but this is one of the few times when there isn’t anything I can do to fix her unhappiness.
“Why isn’t she here?” Isla is sitting next to me on the sofa but her eyes have been fixed on the elevator doors across the foyer for the past half-hour. “Mama promised she would be here at five o’clock.” She looks up at me with an expression that’s a mix of hurt and confusion. “What time is it now?”
I want to lie, but it’s too late for that. “Five thirty-five, sweetheart. Why don’t we do something, hm? Maybe Ella will want to go to the park with us—should I ask her? Or maybe we could go up to the roof and do some stargazing again. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”
I sound desperate, even to my own ears. What else can I do, though? Sometime between signing our divorce paperwork and depositing a check for seventy-five million pounds, Kinsley sent a note up to the penthouse for Isla.
A note where she promised to come by for a visit at five o’clock sharp. A note I didn’t even find out about until I got home at three minutes after five—three minutes after Isla had already started staring at the elevator doors.
“I don’t want to go to the park,” Isla crosses her little arms as the confusion on her face slowly turns to anger. The hurt is still there, though. “I don’t want to look at the stars, either. I want my mama. Where is she?”
