Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
ALEXANDER
Imogen can’t contain her joy and excitement as we explore London, taking in all the major sights. The city holds no interest for me, but seeing it through her eyes is a novel experience that, I have to admit, I don’t hate. She’s incredibly… enthusiastic about everything, and to my jaded soul, she’s a breath of fresh air I crave as much as an addict hankers after their next fix.
After visiting all the places she insisted she just had to see, we meander through Hyde Park hand in hand, stopping for a few minutes at Speaker’s Corner to listen to a member of the public ranting about the state of the capital’s roads. I explain the history of Speaker’s Corner to Imogen, and how parliament in 1872 designated this as an area for free speech.
She listens, enraptured. “There’s so much history in this country,” she says as we walk away. “America is a baby in comparison.”
“That baby has achieved a lot in a few hundred years.”
“True.”
We walk a little farther before I suggest we turn back and head for the car. As we do, a little girl on a bike comes careering toward us. She panics, wobbles, then brakes. Losing her balance, she hits the ground, hard. There’s a half a second pause before an ear-splitting wail tears out of her.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Imogen crouches and helps the child up. Her knees are scuffed, but not bleeding. My wife gives them a rub while the child continues to scream.
I look around for a parenting figure, but can’t see anyone. She can’t be more than five or six—far too young to be cycling through a London park by herself.
“There, there. You’re okay.”
I return my attention to the child, but as I watch Imogen take such wonderful care of her, calming her down in a way I know I never could, a pang echoes through my heart. My wife was born to be a mother. Maybe not now while she’s so young but eventually. Yet by staying married to me, I’m denying her that chance. Nicholas already called me out on that, back when I was determined to force her into asking me for a divorce.
The child’s mother—or possibly nanny—races over and gushes her thanks to Imogen for taking care of the child, while I stand there, feet frozen to the ground as a giant crater opens up in my chest.
I’ve never been the sort of man who wishes things were different. If I want something to change, I make it happen. Yet I cannot change myself or the man I am. I will never father a child knowing one of my family’s enemies could snatch them from under my nose and murder them. I barely survived the loss of Annabel, then my mother. I know, with a hundred percent certainty, I wouldn’t survive losing a child.
And Imogen… she’d lose her baby because of me. Because of who I am. Who my family is. I can’t do that to her .
She gazes up at me with hearts in her eyes, and agony engulfs my soul. There’s only one way to save her from me.
I have to let her go.
Lilian opens the door, her eyes widening at the sight of me standing on the front step four days before our scheduled meeting. This couldn’t wait until Tuesday. She’s the only one who can help me figure out the right thing to do.
“Alexander, I have a client.”
I push past her. “Get rid of them.”
“I can’t.” She gives me one of her stern looks that tells me my behavior isn’t acceptable, that my immense power won’t work here. It’s the reason I’ve been coming to her for so long. She’s not in fear nor in awe of the De Vil name.
“They have another thirty minutes of their allotted time.” She gestures to a three-seater brown leather couch in the waiting area. “Make yourself at home.”
“This can’t wait, Lilian.”
“I’m afraid it will have to. You might think you’re my number one priority, but every single client of mine is number one when they’ve booked and paid me for my time. So, sit down and wait until I am free, or leave and come back on Tuesday. Your choice.”
She sweeps into her office, firmly closing the door behind her.
Goddammit.
I pace, each minute feeling like an hour. For two days, I’ve tried to find the right words to tell Imogen that our marriage is over, and I’ve come up empty. I can’t believe how much has changed since I married her almost seven weeks ago. Then I’d been certain she’d crack first, and I intended to isolate her and make her miserable enough to ensure she did.
But she’s changed me in ways I didn’t see coming, and I cannot live with myself if, by keeping her, I deny her the chance to be a mother.
I can’t be that cruel to the woman I love.
I freeze on the spot. Love? Do I?
Oh, hell… I think I do.
It changes nothing, though. If, by setting Imogen free, I suffer, then so be it. She can live the life she should have had before her father made the deal with mine. She can return to Los Angeles, start working in the field she loves, find a man worthy of her, and have lots of babies as clever, witty, and beautiful as she is.
As for me… I can live a life of solitude. I’ll fix The Consortium issue. I could lie and say she’s the one who asked me for a divorce and I’m not in the habit of imprisoning women. Or perhaps I can say she’s sterile, and I need an heir, so she’ll have to go. Something. Anything. Whatever it takes, I’ll figure it out.
Eventually, the door opens, and a man in his twenties emerges. He looks like hell—something I’m all too familiar with. I’ve left Lilian’s office on many occasions looking similar to him.
“Alexander.” She beckons to me, then pivots and returns to her office.
I follow, closing the door. “I’m sorry for bursting in.”
The surprise that registers on her face is reminiscent of someone who has had a profound breakthrough in a therapy session, unlocking a new level of understanding and connection with their client. I guess she has. I’m sure I’ve never apologized to Lilian, and there have been many occasions I probably should have, considering the shit she’s taken from me over the years.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me what brings you here on a Friday?”
Lilian has a black leather couch for her clients, but I’ve never used it. I prefer to either stand and pace, or sit in an upright chair across from her desk, but for some reason today, I take the couch. Her eyes flare, recognizing another difference in my demeanor.
“I’m divorcing Imogen.”
She picks up a pen and opens the journal she uses to make notes on her clients. Lilian is old school. No tapping on a keyboard for her.
“Mmhmm.” She scrawls something. I try to read it, but her writing is only legible to her.
“Mmhmm? Is that it?”
“What would you like me to say, Alexander? You’ve made a statement. Are you looking for me to talk you out of your decision?”
My blood heats. I run my finger around my collar, my gut tightening. “I want you to do your fucking job, Lilian. I pay you enough.”
Her sigh irritates me further. It takes a monumental effort to keep my arse on the couch and not storm out the door. I came here for a reason. Cutting and running after I’ve cooled my heels outside for thirty goddamn minutes is not a good use of my time.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you divorcing Imogen?”
“Because she deserves to be a mother, and I can’t give her a child.”
She taps her pen on her journal. “Remind me again why that is?”
Lilian knows all too well why I don’t want children. She’s the only person outside the family who does. She’s playing a game. Fine. I’ll play it better.
“You know why.”
Lips pressed together, her features tightening, Lilian gives me her resting bitch face. “I see a lot of clients, Alexander. Humor me.”
“Annabel.” The anger in my voice is impossible to hide, even with a single word spoken.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re still letting fear control you.”
My hands fist. I clench them so fiercely, my knuckles whiten. “Incorrect.”
“Oh.” She feigns surprise. “Tell me more.”
“I am not letting fear control me. I’m making a decision for the good of my wife.”
“And what did she say when you told her why you’d like a divorce?”
Fidgeting, I avert my gaze. “I haven’t told her.”
“And you’re not going to, are you?”
“No.”
Lilian leans forward, stacking her forearms on her desk. “Don’t you think you should? Doesn’t she deserve to know why, after breaking through and finding happiness together, you’re suddenly changing your mind?”
Sometimes I wish I kept certain things to myself. Except Lilian has a way of loosening my lips without my being aware I’m sharing things I wouldn’t with anyone else.
My shoulders droop. “On Wednesday, I took her out on a date, and there was this child. A girl, six or seven maybe. She came off her bike and scuffed her knees, and Imogen…” I shake my head. “You should have seen her, Lilian. She was in he r element giving comfort to that kid. I knew then I couldn’t commit her to a childless marriage.”
She sits back in her chair, sets down her pen, and closes her notebook. “Alexander, we’ve known each other for a long time, but as much progress as you’ve made from our initial meeting, you’ve never fully faced your demons. And until you do that, I mean truly do that, you’ll never be able to make logical decisions in relation to whether or not to have children.”
I don’t agree. I’ve bared my soul in this fucking room. Several times. And logic is what I fucking do. I never make decisions, any decisions, without weighing up the consequences.
“I know what I’m doing, Lilian.”
“Well, then, you don’t need me, do you?”
My anger simmers on the drive back to Oakleigh. I don’t know what I’d wanted from Lilian. Absolution, maybe. Agreement with my decision. I should have known better. Lilian doesn’t give answers; she raises more questions.
I put in a call to my lawyer. He promises to have the papers in my inbox by tomorrow morning. I’ve asked him to include a large lump sum for Imogen, as well as a generous income for life. In return, she’ll be required to give me a no contest divorce.
I’ll hurt her, but I’ll hurt myself worse. This is the right thing to do. I’m doing it for her. She’ll get over this, over me, in no time. She’s young and vibrant. Once she’s not shackled to me, she’ll find the right man who can give her what she needs.
She deserves to live a happy and fulfilled life. I can’t offer her that.
I press the intercom and tell Douglas to turn the car around and take me to a hotel for the night. I can hardly go home, act as if nothing’s wrong, then serve my wife divorce papers in the morning. I send her a text letting her know I’ve been caught up at work and that I’ll see her tomorrow. It’s cruel but necessary.
After a sleepless night, I arrive at Oakleigh at five minutes to eight the next morning. I check the app that tells me Imogen’s whereabouts. She’s in my apartment. Our apartment, after I had her things moved in. I’m regretting that decision now.
I manage to make it to my office without bumping into anyone. Closing the door, I grab my latest journal and pour out my thoughts, my regrets that it’s come to this, my frustration at my inability to find a solution. My devastation at losing a woman I’ve fallen for when I never, for a single second, expected to ever fall in love.
My phone lights up with the email I’ve been waiting for. I open it and carefully read the papers. Everything’s in order. Now all I have to do is serve them to Imogen.
I print them out, marking the pages where she needs to initial or sign, then slide them into a brown envelope.
My stomach is in painful knots when I leave my office and enter the living area to find Imogen reading, so engrossed in the novel laying in her lap, she doesn’t hear me come in. I clear my throat, and she lifts her head and hits me with a dazzling smile. My chest cracks wide open .
She snaps the book closed and sets it beside her, rising to greet me. “There you are. How was last night? I missed you.”
I feel as if my heart is being torn in two; one half clinging desperately to what I have to do, the other begging me not to go through with it. But it’s too late. There’s only one way to do this: fast.
I shove the envelope at her. “I want a divorce.”
She halts abruptly, as if she’s smacked into an invisible brick wall. All the blood drains from her face, leaving her pale as chalk. “What?”
“A divorce. This isn’t working. I never should have married you.”
“But… but…” She rubs her forehead. “I don’t understand.” She lunges forward, reaching for me.
I step back. “The yellow tabs show the pages I need you to sign. You’ll find I’ve been overly generous. Now you can return to America, which is what you want, anyway.”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want that. I did, but I don’t any longer. Things have changed. We’ve changed. You can’t fake what we have, Alexander. You’re not that good of an actor.”
“You don’t know what I’m capable of. You only know the version of me I’ve allowed you to see. You won’t change my mind. Sign the papers, and once you have, leave them on my desk.”
She rubs her forehead, the envelope hanging loosely at her side. “I don’t understand. Two days ago, we were in London, and we were happy. I know we were.”
The walls close in on me, making it difficult to draw in a full breath. I have to get out of here. The longer I stay, the closer I am to falling to my knees and telling her I don’t mean any of it. That I love her. That I want her to love me enough to give up the things that she wants, to choose me over all of it. But I can’t.
“The matter is closed, Imogen. The jet is on standby. Steven will take you to the airport whenever you’re ready.”
I whip around and stride away, leaving her standing there with tears shining in her eyes. I take off down the stairs to the gym. When she drops off the papers at my office, I can’t be there. I’ll never survive denying what I feel a second time.
The pain as I realize I’ll never see her again crushes me. I blast through the gym doors and grab the gloves. Until she signs those divorce papers, I need to keep myself busy and out of her way, otherwise I’m at risk of relenting and confessing everything.
That would be the greatest disservice of all to the only woman I’ll ever love.