Chapter Nine
I spent three days with Willa, trying to get to a point where I wasn’t so emotional and frazzled about the whole situation.
But when it became clear that I was hunkering down to try to avoid handling the whole marriage thing, I packed back up, thanked my cousin for her hospitality, and hopped on a train to Manhattan, where Willa said I would find Harrison’s office.
I’d always loved New York the way I loved Vegas. They had the same heartbeat, the same restless hum under the pavement. I felt it in Hong Kong and Macau too—in cities that never slept because too much money was too awake.
Technically, on paper, New York was not a gambling town. There were no full casinos full of spinning slot machines and windowless disorientation.
Though anyone who knew anything about professional gambling knew that there were many private poker clubs, backroom games, and invitation-only rooms.
It was the same game I loved, but with added stakes. And, often, celebrities at the table.
This was the first time I’d visited the city without a game in mind.
Anxiety thrummed in my veins as the train pulled into the station. I had yet another copy of the paperwork in my bag, sent over from my Vegas attorney and printed out at Willa’s office, in case Harrison did something stupid like throw his copy out.
I wanted no excuse for him to say we couldn’t do this if he had done the smart thing and changed his mind.
I made my way out of the station, pausing on the sidewalk to soak in the energy of the city. But for the first time in my life, New York felt too loud, too fast, too overwhelming.
With a sigh, I turned away from the yellow taxis sitting near the curb waiting for passengers and started walking.
Harrison’s office was in Midtown too.
And I guess that made sense.
It was where old money met modern wealth.
It might be the beating heart of tourism, but it was also home to a lot of private equity firms and hedge fund managers.
I fell into step with the crowds as we moved up the sidewalks and rushed across intersections.
Then there it was.
A tall glass tower, the hundreds of windows reflecting the buildings around it.
The Valentine Group.
I’d known Harrison was rich in Vegas.
And it had been confirmed by my cousin.
But knowing someone was rich and realizing they owned an entire building in Midtown Manhattan was a complete other thing.
This kind of building had to be worth somewhere between two and five hundred million.
Knowing what I knew about personal net worth, I had to assume that meant Harrison Valentine was the ultra-elite kind of rich. Meaning a “B” in front of “illion” instead of the “M” I’d been expecting.
No wonder my lawyer and my cousin both went wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the idea of a man like this being so reckless as to marry a stranger without first protecting his assets.
Harrison was a billionaire.
Which, according to the rings still on my finger, meant I was now a billionaire.
This guy was a straight-up idiot if he didn’t sign the annulment now that I knew what was at stake and was willing not to take him to court for half.
Sucking in a deep breath, I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored glass window, trying to finger-comb my hair back into order.
I hadn’t dressed up for the occasion.
Lightly flared jeans, a tee, a black leather jacket, and black combat boots were what he would be getting. I hoped that he saw it and realized how unfit I was for his life.
Maybe he’d had a different idea of me because I needed to be in a nice dress to be at the poker table.
But I was not a fancy dresser. I would never be the kind of arm candy rich men wanted to drag around to charity events and business meeting circle-jerks.
Rolling my shoulders, I made my way inside.
The lobby felt more like a gallery than an office. Light traced clean lines across the ceiling in precise geometric patterns, glowing against steel beams and polished stone. Everything was open and symmetrical, designed to impress without raising its voice to be heard.
Low, modern sofas sat in small groupings across the floor, their cream upholstery stark against the dark sheen on the floors beneath them.
Glass walls rose on either side textured panels catching the light and breaking it into shades of blue and gold.
The whole space hummed with quiet purpose—footsteps softened by the sheer scale of the space, conversations kept low, as if the building itself demanded discretion.
At the far end, a wide corridor stretched forward in a line, drawing the eye inward, deeper into the heart of the building.
It was the kind of space that reminded you exactly how small you were… and how powerful the person running it must be.
My spine straightened instinctively.
Cool air brushed across my skin as I forced myself not to turn and flee, but to make my way over toward the reception area that gatekept the rest of the building from anyone who might happen inside.
The air had the faint scent of polished stone and something earthy—like leather and tobacco. Nothing that demanded attention, but you noticed regardless.
That was how money smelled.
Understated.
There were three people stationed behind the desk—two men and a woman, all of them immaculately dressed and polished.
“Hi, I’m here to—”
One of the men glanced at me first. “Good morning, Mrs. Valentine.”
The world tilted.
I blinked. “I—”
The receptionist offered me a business smile, charmingly practiced.
“He’s expecting you.”
My stomach dipped.
“He’s… what?”
“He’s expecting you,” the man told me again. “The elevator is to your left.”
What (and I can’t stress this enough) the fuck?
How did the staff know who I was? By sight, no less? I hadn’t even introduced myself. He’d just known.
Did Harrison pass around pictures of me?
My legs felt numb as they carried me over to the elevator to the left. Not, I must say, the elevator bank to the right. That was for the common people. This was the fancy, private elevator. There weren’t even any buttons inside, since it only went one place. The top floor.
I watched the door, trying to ignore the way my pulse had found some strange, erratic rhythm as the car slid silently up the building.
My thumb rubbed across the diamond on my ring finger as my nerves jangled in my bones.
The soft ding nearly made me jump out of my skin when I reached the top floor.
The doors slid open to a floor similar to the one below: the same flooring, lights, understated, but unmistakable wealth.
I took one step out of the elevator and glanced across the expansive space.
There was a seating area directly in front of the elevators with a smaller reception desk to the left of it. Only one woman stood there, typing on the computer as she cradled a phone between her ear and shoulder.
To the right of the elevator were a few doors and then a large conference room with an enormous gleaming table and no fewer than twenty chairs set around it.
My gaze slid forward again, past the seating area and to the glass wall that separated the waiting area from the CEO’s office.
There was no privacy. For anyone. Not even Harrison.
Behind the glass wall was a large dark desk, meticulously neat. In front of that, two seats for guests.
At the far end of the room seemed to be a coffee station or kitchenette.
Harrison himself was in his office, standing and looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me.
Seeing him sent an unexpected jolt through me. One I was desperately trying to label disgust or anger. But some part of me knew better.
“Can I help you, miss—” the secretary started to ask. Then fell silent for a second as I turned. “Oh! Mrs. Valentine. You can, of course, just go right in.”
Of course?
Even if I was legitimately his wife, wouldn’t she want to check with the boss before allowing me to enter his office?
Why did everything sound like he’d been extremely explicit with the staff about my importance?
“Uh, thanks,” I said, giving her a tight smile before making my way to the office door.
I kind of wished for privacy.
I could feel the secretary’s gaze on me, knew she would be watching our body language, our facial expressions, likely to use the information for water cooler chat later.
Sure, I wanted my annulment. But I didn’t want people making up stories about me or Harrison.
I exhaled hard and moved into the office.
“Yes, Madison?” Harrison asked, not turning.
“Not Madison,” I said.
It was like a current shot through his body. He jolted and turned, eyes wide and brows raised.
“Layna.” He always did that. Breathed my name. Like the sound itself was something precious.
“So, yeah, why the hell does everyone who works here know me by sight?” I asked, starting to gesture out toward Madison before remembering she was probably watching.
“Because you’re my wife.”
“Oh, my God. I’m really not.”
“You are, though.”
“Only because you won’t sign the damn papers,” I said, exasperation leaking into my voice as I moved toward his desk. “I brought another copy.” I reached into my bag then dropped the folder onto his desk.
“I see. Very proactive of you. Can I get you a coffee?” he asked, ignoring the folder and waving toward the coffee bar.
Damn him.
He found my kryptonite.
He knew it, too, judging by the way his eyes warmed and his lips curved up into a smile.
“Allow me,” he said, already making his way in that direction.
“I can make it,” I insisted.
“Of course you can,” he agreed, but kept moving.
“You don’t know how I like it.” I started to fold my arms, remembered Madison, and dropped them again.
“You like it hot when you’re inside, but iced when you’re outside. And you always like it sweet, slightly creamy, and flavored.”
How the hell did he know that much?
“So my only question is if you’re more in the mood for vanilla, caramel, mocha, or brown sugar and cinnamon?”
“You have brown sugar cinnamon syrup?” I asked, eyeing the rack of syrups that looked out of place.
“I do,” he said, reaching for it.