Chapter seven #2
“I have a proposition,” I say evasively. As I step into the house, Ronan’s arm shoots forward to block my path. “Down boy, I won’t bite her. Isabella, tell your lapdog to sit.”
“Don’t be so fucking rude,” she snaps, stalking over and smacking my shoulder. “Ronan, you can go home. He’s an asshole, but he won’t hurt me.”
“If you’re sure, Miss?” he questions.
“I am, good night.”
***
Isabella
Hunter and I watch Ronan walk off down the hallway. When he disappears from view, I turn and glare at my husband.
“What do you want?”
“A conversation,” he replies. Every fiber of my being is screaming to send him away.
This is not a good position to be in, alone with the man who shattered my heart.
“Hear me out, and if we can’t come to an agreement, I’ll sign.”
Uncertain but curious, I relent. If it means there’s light at the end of the tunnel, it may be worth speaking to him.
“I suppose you better come in.” He follows me in, turning and closing the door behind us. “Do you want a drink?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”
The white wine sits on the coffee table. I grab another glass from the sideboard before pouring his drink and passing it to him. He takes it from me and lifts it to his lips, downing more than half. His strong throat muscles flex beneath his skin. I can’t help but watch.
“Thirsty?” I ask.
“Nervous.”
His reply surprises me, and I stop momentarily to look at him. Dressed in his sleek dark suit and crisp white shirt, with his hair twisted into a bun, he looks every inch the businessman. The long, dark wool coat he wears completes the sleek style.
I watch him tentatively as he places his glass down and shrugs out of his coat before sitting.
After catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I am acutely aware that my appearance is much less put together and more like a mother at wine o’clock.
But tits up, I’ve got this. He appeared here, unannounced; I won’t let him upset me.
I take my drink and sit down opposite him.
“Talk,” I say, gesturing with my free hand for him to speak. He smirks, then presses his lips together as if to stop himself from saying something he shouldn’t. He takes his phone from his suit jacket pocket and passes it to me.
“Press play,” he says.
A video of CCTV footage appears on the screen. A man dressed in gym clothes is being manhandled from a doorway and then held against the wall at knifepoint by Hunter. There is no sound, but a struggle ensues then the victim runs off clasping his cheek.
“Why?”
“You haven’t seen it already?” he asks, surprised. I shake my head. “Everyone else in London has.”
“Why?” I repeat, wanting to keep the conversation short, to the point, and not show any unnecessary empathy.
“He was inappropriate with one of the cleaners at the gym. He needed to be taught a lesson.”
I look from the phone to my estranged husband and back to the phone.
“It perhaps was not the best method of education I decided to use. This footage has been leaked all over social media. It’s causing me what some may call business issues.”
I pass him his phone back and fix him with a stare
“What has any of this to do with me?”
“I need your help,” he says, his expression open and honest. “I need you to be my wife. I need you to pose as Mrs. Devane. Accompany me to events. That sort of thing.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. How will that help?”
“My reputation is in tatters. If I can provide a solid image that will improve the situation, all will be forgotten.”
“You think parading me around the city will save your business,” I say sarcastically. “I know the sort of things you get up to; finally, all that shit is catching up.”
He shrugs, unruffled by my pushback.
“My lawyers and the PR company I hired think so. They’re the experts, so I’m happy to go along with their suggestion.”
“Well, I’m not!” I screech, shooting to my feet. “Sign the fucking papers and find some other woman to fill the role. I am sure there are plenty in the queue.”
He rises to join me, stepping forward into my space. His hand lifts to my cheek. As it connects with my skin, a jolt of electricity shoots through me, and he smiles. He felt it, too. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but his eyes only hold mine for a beat.
“Bella, no matter what you have heard, there has only ever been you,” he breathes. My brain misfires, attempting to compute what he said. That can’t be true. “Give me thirty-six months.”
“Three years? You want me to play wife for three years? No, Hunter. I want my life to start now.”
“You need me to sign, Bella. I could drag the divorce out if I wanted to.”
My mind whirls, trying to consider my options. He’s agreed to sign, but on his terms. Men in power don’t like losing; they’re also comfortable negotiating. He’s willing to barter. Sometimes, you need to play with the lion to get what you want.
“Three months,” I counteroffer, and he shakes his head.
“Twenty-four.”
“Six,” I say, then cross my arms over my chest. I straighten my shoulders and glare up at him, attempting to ooze control. He needs me, and I need him; we’re both in a win-or-lose situation.
“My final offer is twelve, or I instruct my lawyers to contest this.”
He shakes the divorce contract. His eyes flick to my open fire burning adjacent to him.
He saunters over and throws the paperwork on the flames.
“In twelve months, present me with another one and I’ll sign, Bella. Until then, be my wife.”
I look from him to the burning document and back again.
“Do we have a deal?” he prompts, walking toward me with his hand outstretched.
“We have a deal.” He takes my hand, squeezing it in his. His large frame leans down and places a kiss on my cheek. My stomach flips like the traitor my body is around him.
“Grand doing business with ya,” he says, his Irish lilt more pronounced. “I’ll be in touch.”
With that, he releases my hand and leaves out of the front door.