Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Richard
The Paris negotiations went smoother than I'd expected.
That old fox Davis gave ground on the contract, which meant Winston Group could expand its European market share by another fifteen percent.
Before, that would've been worth popping ten cases of the best vintage and dragging the whole team to the priciest restaurant until dawn.
But now? I just felt tired. Bone-fucking-tired.
"Richard, want to celebrate?" Olivia's voice drifted over. "I know this amazing new restaurant—"
"Not necessary." I didn't even look at her, sliding the pen back into my jacket. "You guys go. Put it on my tab."
Around the conference room, executives exchanged glances. Davis's people raised eyebrows.
Olivia's smile froze for half a second before she recovered. She moved closer, lowering her voice. "What's wrong? You just closed this huge deal, and you're not even happy?"
Of course I wasn't happy. Anyone who'd been served divorce papers would be pissed as hell.
I turned to her, voice flat. "Olivia, since when do I report my schedule or my mood to you?"
Her face went white. She didn't say another word.
Dead silence all around. Good.
I grabbed my phone off the table. The screen lit up with a new email notification from the PI I was paying double to report Natalie's whereabouts every twenty-four hours.
I still couldn't let Natalie go. She was so fragile, so beautiful. Without me, she'd struggle.
Of course, part of me wanted her to suffer a little. Then she'd realize that only at my side could she be happy.
With that thought, I opened the email.
In the first photo, Natalie wore a tight purple dress I'd never seen before, standing on some cheap little stage, gripping a microphone, eyes closed, head tilted back. The lights hit her face, sweat sliding down her neck into her neckline, wearing a wild smile I'd never seen.
Not how a Mrs. Winston should look. But it made my cock hard as stone.
The second photo made my blood boil.
A guy with light brown hair and green eyes stood close to Natalie. In the shot, he was handing her a drink. I could clearly see their hands touching.
My brain screamed to snap his wrist.
Third photo, fourth, fifth... every single one showed this man with Natalie.
Until the last one—the guy dropping Natalie off at an apartment building, opening her car door. Her smile was blinding. Couldn't she tell just from his face that this guy was a player?
Christ. My grip tightened on the phone until my knuckles went white.
"Mr. Davis," my voice came out surprisingly steady—a damn miracle, "let my team finalize the details with you. I have an urgent matter. Excuse me."
I didn't wait for a response. Grabbed my jacket and headed out.
Heels clicked behind me. Olivia must've followed. I didn't bother looking back, just stepped into the elevator.
The second the doors closed, I called the PI.
"Did that man spend the night with Natalie?"
"No, Mr. Winston. He drove off. Mrs. Winston returned to the apartment alone."
Thank God.
If I'd gotten the other answer, I couldn't imagine what I'd do.
"By tomorrow, I want everything on this guy." I hung up.
I needed to know which idiot was messing with my woman.
As the elevator descended, I opened the photos again. Zoomed in. That green-eyed bastard, how dare he look at Natalie like that?
And Natalie, how could she smile at another man like that?
Damn it. Three days ago, I thought she'd crawl back begging. Clearly, I was dead wrong.
When I stepped out, David called. "Mr. Winston, the William Group meeting is confirmed for ten tomorrow morning, and there are three files you need to review tonight—"
"Cancel everything." I cut him off, walking through the hotel's revolving doors into Paris's cold, damp night air. "I'm flying back to L.A. tonight."
"Tonight? But filing a flight plan for the private jet takes time, and your morning schedule—"
"I said tonight." I was already in the waiting car, voice leaving no room for argument. "Contact the airport. Whatever it takes. I want wheels up in two hours."
The noise and smell of Mustang hit me like a punch the second I pushed through the door.
Cheap beer, sweat, fried food, and smoke all mixed together. What separated this place from a dumpster?
Christ. Natalie stayed here? In this dump?
I stood in the doorway, adjusting to the dim light and deafening music.
In my suit, I looked like an idiot who'd wandered onto the wrong set. Several eyes from the crowd were already sizing me up. I ignored them, scanning the room.
Then I saw Natalie.
She was on the corner stage, small and pathetic, just like in the photos.
Tonight she wore a tight black top and denim shorts. Those legs that wrapped around my neck in bed were on display for everyone... My gaze dropped... Damn it, she wasn't even wearing shoes! Her feet, which I'd kissed, were planted on God-knows-how-filthy carpet! If this was her revenge, it worked.
She was singing some old fast-tempo rock song, her husky voice carrying a raw seduction.
With the intense beat, her hips swayed, her thighs flexing and releasing with each stomp, the stage lights outlining her curves.
Sweat soaked the fabric at her chest, revealing dark outlines.
Her gaze swept the crowd below with a teasing smile, tongue darting across her lips.
Heat exploded in my groin, hard enough to hurt.
I stared at this woman commanding the stage and realized—I'd thought I'd caged a quiet canary, never knowing a wild leopard lived inside her. And I'd been completely blind to it.
A surge of fury and possessiveness seized me.
I wanted to charge up there, wrap her in my jacket, grab her waist, and drag her out of these hungry eyes, drag her back to Blackwood Manor, and fuck her senseless.
But I didn't move. I stood there like a pillar.
I was the Winston heir. My every move reflected the family. Drag Natalie out in front of these people? Impossible.
I watched Natalie leave the stage to cheers, disappearing through a small door backstage. That green-eyed bastard, Landon, the asshole from the photos, said something brief at the door and patted her shoulder. She smiled at him.
Damn it.
My jaw clenched so hard it ached.
After a deep breath, I headed for that door as calmly as possible.
The bar's layout twisted and turned—I wove past stacked beer crates, through the crowd.
After dodging a drunk trying to sell me God-knows-what and turning several corners, I found myself at a utility closet full of cleaning supplies.
Shit. I was lost in this dive.
Just as frustration burned through my control, I heard Natalie's voice from a nearby hallway reeking of stale beer.
"I said no. Please move."
Her voice held irritation, but I knew her too well—that tone meant fear.
I immediately headed toward the sound.
At the end of the hallway, near the bathroom, a burly drunk was blocking Natalie. He swayed, mumbling filth, one hand reaching for her arm.
"Don't be cold, sweetheart... sang so pretty... have another drink with me... I know what girls like you want..."
Natalie kept backing up, pressed against the cold tile wall, forcing composure. "Last time, get lost."
"Hey, feisty little—" The drunk grinned, his thick hand reaching for her face.
Just before his fingers touched her cheek—
I seized his wrist and twisted hard in the opposite direction!
"Ahhh!" His scream echoed down the hallway.
The drunk stumbled forward from the force. Without even looking at his disgusting face, I drove my knee into his gut. His scream changed pitch as bile mixed with booze spewed out.
"You... you fucking..." The drunk lay there shaking, gasping in pain, still trying to get up.
"Still here?" I raised my foot toward his chest, voice low. "I guarantee, one more step and I'll break your ribs."
The drunk scrambled up and crawled away from Natalie, slipping once in his panic, fumbling back to his feet, disappearing without looking back.
The hallway suddenly went quiet. I looked at my hand that had touched him, felt sicker than eating day-old food.
I closed my eyes, pushing down the nausea, then turned to Natalie.
She was still against the wall, watching me. Just a flicker of surprise on her face. Nothing else.
"Are you hurt?" My voice came out rough as I scanned her body.
That damn black top had a low neckline, sweat still on her collarbone. With her quick breathing, her chest rose and fell.
"No." She straightened, tugging her hem down.
Then she looked up at me with those blue eyes.
The light was too dim. Usually, in light this dim, Natalie and I were having sex.
Of course, I couldn't have sex with her here.
Even though I missed her body desperately, missed her moans.
Even though I was hard enough to explode.
"Richard, did you sign the divorce papers?"
Time stopped for a second.
That question killed everything sexual in my head instantly.
Rage surged in, drowning what little reason I had left.
I stepped forward, grabbed Natalie's shoulders, and slammed her back against the wall. Her bones felt delicate, shoulders thin, her skin's warmth bleeding through the fabric.
"I never said I'd sign." I leaned in close, nose nearly touching hers, each word grinding through my teeth with a viciousness that felt foreign even to me.
"Natalie, you're my wife. Who gave you permission to run to this trash hole, wear these cheap clothes, smile for a bunch of men, and flirt with other guys? "
My grip tightened unconsciously. She didn't make a sound, just glared at me, her blue eyes like ice.
"My patience has limits." I bit out, breath hitting her face. At this distance, I could smell her faint sweat, alcohol, and familiar orange blossom, now mixed with bar smoke—strange and sharp. "Natalie, this stupid runaway game ends now. Come home with me."
Natalie looked at me and suddenly laughed coldly.
"Richard, you actually think this is a game?
This is the life I want. Even if it's garbage to you, it's better than being with you.
" She stared at me, shouting angrily, "I will never go back with you.
I want respect and freedom! I want to do what I want!
Right now, you're just a page I can't wait to tear out! "
Fuck restraint. Fuck decorum. Fuck everything.
I lowered my head and kissed her hard.
Her soft lips stayed pressed shut. I didn't care—I forced her teeth open, my tongue tangling with hers. I'd reclaim control over Natalie this way.
Then a sharp crack echoed through the narrow hallway.
Pain exploded across my face.
The slap hit hard. My head snapped to the side, the taste of blood in my mouth.