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He laughs. “No one’s going into that building. It’s been secured and eventually it’ll be torn down.”
Some of the paintings in my apartment were gifts from my deda. He was the one who helped me start my collection. And some of his Fabergé eggs were left behind, too.
“No! There has to be a way for me to get my art out.”
“Ma’am, I don’t know what else to tell you. The building is not structurally sound. It could collapse. Nothing in there is worth a human life.”
“But what about my insurance company?”
“This is what they call a total loss. You’ll be able to get paperwork to that effect.”
I close my eyes, feeling sick. The fire may not have even reached the penthouse level. My security company said the sprinklers activated, so my art probably has water damage, but some of it could be salvageable.
In the past week, I’ve lost my home, some of the most treasured pieces in my art collection, and all my possessions. And I’m married to a man who hates me. My whole life has been upended.
“Is there a number I could write on a check that would change anything?” I ask hopefully.
He groans, sounding disgusted. “No. Have a nice day.”
With that, he hangs up.
I drop the pen onto my desk, too devastated to throw it across the room. My art collection is more precious to me than anything. No insurance payout could ever cover the loss of what was in my apartment when the fire started.
I used to thrive on being alone. Keeping everyone at arms’ length. These recent glimpses of life with a partner are messing with my head.
I have to get out of this marriage.
“Well?” I ask Peter later that afternoon.
He crumples up the paper wrapper for the sandwich he just ate at his desk and tosses it into a trash can.
“I’ve done nothing but make calls today, and I’m coming up empty.”
I groan, aggravated. “How hard can it be to find a politician who wants a massive campaign contribution?”
His eyes flash with annoyance. “It can’t be just any politician. It has to be someone who can influence Mills. And I can’t just openly call senators and ask if they’re game for a bribe.”
“Bribe is such a loaded word.”
He shakes his head and lets out a single note of laughter. “Loaded with truth. We have to be careful about this, and it might take time.”
I pinch my brows together, silently asking the universe to make just one thing go well today.
“Trouble in paradise?” Peter asks.
“I’m meant to be a lone wolf.”
“Buy a ten-thousand-square-foot place and you’ll never even have to see each other. Separate wings.”
I sink down into one of the chairs in front of Peter’s desk. “I am about to be on the market for a new place. My building was condemned today. Lucky me.”
“Damn, I’m sorry.”
“Keep making calls.” I stand up, shrugging of the sense of self-pity, eager to move on to anything that will get my mind off of my personal life. “I’m a very motivated donor.”
“I’m on it.”
I leave his office and head back toward the end of the basement where my office is, smacking into something as I round a corner.
“Hot!” I pull my shirt away from my chest to escape the burning sensation. “Holy fuck, that’s hot.”
Quentin is gaping at me, the cup of coffee he was carrying now rolling across the floor, empty. Its entire contents are on my chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes wide with shock. “I didn’t even hear you coming. I am so sorry.”
I laugh. For a solid thirty seconds, I laugh so hard I can feel it in my stomach. This day just won’t stop sucking. I want to say fuck it and lock myself in my office with a bottle of Stoli.
“Um…I’ll go get you a shirt from the PR department merch,” Quentin says. “Do you need some paper towels to clean up?”
I shake my head, defeated.
Of course, the only T-shirt they have in the PR department is a men’s 3XL, which makes me look like a little kid playing dress-up. It makes for an interesting video call that afternoon.
I’m relieved that Colby is leaving for a road trip today. With any luck, I’ll have the problem of our marriage solved before he gets back home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Colby
One month later
“What’s going on with you, man?” Ford’s brow is wrinkled with concern.
Our team captain brought me into the college team’s equipment room for a private talk, and the smell of sweaty gloves in this closed-up space is overwhelming.
“I’m good.”
He shakes his head. “This is me. We’ve always been able to talk about things. I’m really concerned about you.”
I look away, my chest tightening. I’ve been playing like shit for the past three weeks, missing passes, instigating fights for no good reason, and not taking shots on goal that I should be taking. Beau and Ford have been trying to cover for me during games, but it’s pretty much impossible. An offensive line is like a three-legged stool; when one person is off, the entire line is off.
