Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Bastard.
I slam the door to my penthouse behind me as I breeze past the threshold, feeling utterly defeated and so angry with the man I’ve held on a pedestal for years. It’s been hours, and I’m still livid over the exchange with Luciano earlier.
It’s my own fault for holding him to such a high standard. For thinking he’d help me.
I should have known better than to think he’d be the one to get me out of this mess.
Over the years, he’s shown small glimpses of kindness, but for the most part, Luciano has always been cool and indifferent toward me.
I’m the one with the crush. It’s my own fault for thinking he’s someone he clearly isn’t.
Dropping onto my couch, I bring up the web browser on my phone and start researching other divorce attorneys in my area, looking for ones who give off a ‘don’t fuck with me,’ cutthroat vibe in their bio photos.
Thirty minutes and what seems like two-hundred webpages later, I finally settle on someone to call because, at this point, staring at websites isn’t going to help. I need to make a few calls and start figuring this out.
“Diana Clark’s office, how may I direct your call?” a deep baritone on the other end of the line answers over the sound of typing in the background.
“Hi, yes. Diana, please,” I singsong into the receiver, hoping to get straight through to the woman of the hour.
“Your name?”
“Raina Lancaster.”
The typing ceases, and instead, the clicking of a mouse begins. “Is Ms. Clark expecting your call?”
“She’s not, but it's imperative I speak with her directly.”
“Ms. Clark is unavailable at the moment?—”
“Trust me,” I interrupt. “I have a divorce case she’ll be interested in hearing about.”
“I’d be happy to schedule a consultation for you, but Ms. Clark doesn’t entertain phone calls from prospective clients without a prior consultation. How soon did you want to schedule?”
Annoyed, I huff and put the phone on speaker before toggling over to the calendar on my phone. “What’s the earliest available?”
There’s more clicking coming through the phone speaker, and he clears his throat. “October third.”
Drawing my eyes back to my calendar, I zero in on the red circle encompassing the ten. My brows knit in confusion. “It’s October tenth.”
“October third of next year.”
“Excuse me?” I can’t hide the shock from my voice. This lady isn’t even the best of the best, there’s no way she’s booked that far out for consultations.
The receptionist on the line sighs in irritation. “Ms. Clark is extremely busy. She’s one of the most sought after attorneys in the city. Her next available consultation is next October. Would you like me to schedule you, Ms. Laughlin?”
“Lancaster,” I bite out. “And no, that won’t be necessary. In fact, that’s absolutely ridiculous, considering she is not one of the most sought after attorneys as you claim. Have a great day.”
I don’t bother waiting for a response before hanging up. Chucking my phone across the room, it bounces off the cream-colored wall before it finds its new home on the floor.
“Dammit,” I curse under my breath and push the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. My mind is whirling with ideas on my next move, having now failed to secure an attorney twice.
Obviously, I need representation, and quickly. Javier made it clear he wants me by his side sooner than later, and I worry what he’ll do if I continue to refuse.
Against my better judgment, when I went to his hotel room that next evening, he made it clear we were married, showing me proof.
What I needed to figure out is if our marriage is also legal in the United States.
I assume it is—being that destination weddings are a thing—but I’ve never been married.
Never even looked into it. So I still have lingering doubts.
Dammit, Luciano.
I can’t believe I’ve held a flickering flame for him all these years, and he won’t even consider being my attorney. A working, business relationship.
Where I pay him.
Anger and annoyance courses through my blood as his stupid face filters into my mind. I want to reach into the hypnotic image and punch it, just to make the smug look in his eye dissipate.
Instead, I let out a feral screech, needing the release of frustration, then strip out of my clothes as I stomp into my bathroom and draw a bath.
Bubbles. Lavender. Epsom salts.
That’s what I need.
Maybe my vibrator too, for a different type of release.
After all of that, I’ll regroup and figure it out like I always do. This is Manhattan, for God's sake. Attorneys are a dime a dozen, and it shouldn’t be this difficult to find one who I mesh well with.
So I’m going to live by that stupid saying, third time’s a charm, and hope for the best.
Laughter and champagne bottles popping infiltrate the air around me as I step into The Manhattan Animal Society’s annual charity gala.
Women wear elaborate gowns, sparkling from head to toe in lavish diamonds and other precious stones, while the men are dressed to the nines in full tuxedos, some even donning tails and top hats.
It’s elaborate considering there are areas blocked off throughout the opulent ballroom with puppies, dogs, cats, and kittens.
Soft music plays as people mingle and walk arm in arm with their spouses, browsing the poor creatures who only want a loving family to take them home.
They won’t find that in this ballroom.
The Manhattan Animal Society plans this ball for one reason: Upper East Side socialites open their pocketbooks the widest for children and animals. God forbid anyone actually takes one of these furry babies home, but thankfully, the shelter is a no-kill facility.
This is the one event a year for the millionaires and billionaires of New York to prove they still have a conscience.
I run my hands down the front of my simple silk blush-colored gown.
The straps are thin and the fabric swoops lightly over the top of my breasts, accentuating them in a classy way.
My hair’s pulled back into a high ponytail, and I left a few framing pieces around my face, giving it a 90s feel.
Still, even with the diamond choker around my neck, I feel underdressed.
Taking a bubbling glass from a passing waiter, I meander over to the senior dogs, smiling down at them as their handlers pet their white-fur peppered faces.
There’s one in particular who catches my eye as he or she leans into their handler, enjoying being scratched behind their ears, before slowly plopping onto the ground to roll onto their back for belly rubs.
Definitely a boy.
He lets out a low roo-roo in appreciation, his tail dusting the floor enthusiastically.
A laugh floats past my lips as I bring my champagne glass to my lips and take a small sip. “What’s his name?” I ask the handler, tipping my head toward the goodest boy living his best life as he gets belly rubs.
“Mickey-D,” she says, smiling affectionately. “He’s ten years old, been with us for almost two years now.”
“What happened to his owners?”
She shrugs, looking down at him sadly before looking back up at me. “He was found abandoned in the alleyway behind a McDonald’s, his leash tethered to a dumpster.” She giggles and turns her attention back to him. In a baby voice, she says, “That’s why you have such a silly name, isn’t it, boy?”
The thought makes my heart sink into the depths of my stomach. “People disgust me.”
She moves to scratch his chest. “I know. I don’t understand how someone can be so cruel to animals. Are you looking to adopt?”
The thought of Mickey-D moseying his way around my apartment, flopping around on his back as he waits for me to give him belly rubs, brings a smile to my face. “Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it until now.”
“Well, if a pet is something you can commit to, I highly recommend adopting a senior dog. Puppies are great, but there’s something special about the love a senior shelter dog has to give, even if their time with you won’t be as long.”
Curling my glass into me, I stare down at the black and white dog. He’s medium-sized and seems to be some sort of lab-mix.
I’ve never had a dog. My parents traveled too much for us to have any sort of pets, not that I ever asked for one, anyway. Now, the idea of having a companion at home is enticing.
“Don’t even think about it,” a delicious, sin-filled voice floats from behind me. Turning, I find Luciano entering my space with a glass of amber liquid in his grasp. “The last thing you need is a pet, let alone a dog that appears to be one day older than dirt.”
“And why is that, exactly?” I quip, my voice thick with attitude.
My eyes connect with his dove-colored bluish grays, and my heart stops beating as he sends me a knowing look.
But that’s the thing. He doesn’t know me.
I hold his gaze as I toss back the remains of my champagne, curiosity trickling down with the bubbles when his eyes track the movement of the liquid moving down my throat.
Turning back to the sweet animal society worker, I thank her for her time before I walk away.
But I only make it two steps before Luciano grabs my wrist. My vision jolts to where his hand encircles my skin before lifting it to his face, catching the surprise as it dances across his features, mirroring my own.
Electricity tingles beneath his touch, pebbling my skin in a layer of goosebumps.
“Dance with me?” he asks, his eyes locked with mine. His voice is slightly shaky before he clears his throat. “We have some things to discuss.”
“Do we?” I question, pulling out of his hold.
“Yes,” he says with confidence, grabbing my hand this time and leading me to the dance floor.
My heart hammers beneath my rib cage. He’s never asked me to dance before—never really engaged me in conversation at a gala or ball before, either.
We’re attracting looks from nosey women around the room, who are not so subtly pining over the gorgeous man clutching my hand with a death grip.
When we’ve reached the center of the floor, he whips me around, spinning me into him as he cradles my lower back with his palm. I’m still reeling over the whiplash—both mental and physical—when he starts to move us to the music.
As my brain tries to catch up, my eyes wander around the ballroom, and where I see people whispering, eyes wide in marvel at Luciano on the dance floor.
It’s a sight that hasn’t been witnessed in ages.
Holding my head high, I plaster on a smile and turn my attention back to the man holding me in his arms as I try to remind my heart that he means absolutely nothing by this display of decency.
“You don’t dance,” I mutter, the words finally forming on my tongue.
“Would you prefer we speak more candidly in a corner somewhere where we will really draw attention?”
“Honestly, I think that option would have been more discreet.” I tip my chin toward the lookie-loos. “I don’t think anyone’s seen you dance in nearly a decade.”
“How would you know how long it’s been since I’ve graced the dance floor?”
Because I scour the society pages and interrogate your sister about your love life like I’m a sad puppy dog.
Glaring at him, I ignore the question. “What is it you want to discuss?”
His eyes search mine, fire meeting fire as I continue to hold my head high like he has zero effect on me and my insides haven’t completely turned into Jell-O. After a moment, he finally sighs in defeat. “I’m taking your case.”
“I’m not interested in your representation.” My response is immediate and unwavering, but my subconscious still screams ‘you idiot’.
Maybe what’s her name will call me back.
“You’ve found someone else?”
He means another attorney, but my heart stupidly pangs with some delirium that he means romantically.
But my answer in both instances is no.
“I have,” I tell him anyway.
He scoffs before looking over my head. I can practically see the cogs in his mind working as we float across the dance floor in time to the music. With a cocky smirk, he leans down to my ear, his voice dropping to the sexiest throaty growl I’ve ever heard. “They won’t fight for you like I will.”
My panties incinerate from the heat of my body as he pulls back and continues to lead our movements as though he didn’t just turn my vagina into Niagara Falls by the tone of his voice.
Thankfully, I’ve always been graced with quick-witted comebacks, so it only freezes me for a moment. “What exactly is there to fight? It’s a divorce case, not a murder trial. The end result is guaranteed to be a divorce.”
“Ah, and see, that’s where you’re wrong, Raina.
Divorce is messy. Unpredictable. What seems easy and amicable can quickly turn into a viper's den. Your situation is complicated—I’ve looked into it.
Your husband is about to take on a new title as a baron, which means there are certain processes that need to be followed and expectations his family will have pending he grants you this divorce.
The file Lydia compiled explained that he was demanding you accompany him to Spain for his father’s services, which tells me he’s not ready to give you what you’re wanting.
This divorce won’t be quick and painless like you think it will be.
He’s going to fight dirty, draw it out, and try to change your mind a thousand times before he signs on the dotted line. ”
A sinking feeling settles in my stomach, and my knee-jerk reaction is to pull my hand from his and walk away. It feels like he’s pouring salt on the wound. Reminding me of everything I’ve been fearing since I left Javier’s hotel room that night.
“You’re wrong.”
Luciano tightens his grip on my hand. “I’m never wrong.”
“I’ll help you,” he reiterates, his voice smooth like whiskey.
Searching his eyes, I try to find the catch, and even though I’m not seeing any signs of insincerity, I still pull myself out of the hypnotism of his gaze and get my head back on straight as the song comes to an end and we naturally slow. “I already have a lawyer.”
Just before he releases me from his hold completely, his hand lightly squeezes my waist. “Give me a call when you realize I’m the better choice.”
With my heart lumped in my throat, Luciano walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the dance floor. As I watch him tip his head at those who he passes, one thought stays in the forefront of my mind.
You’ve always been my choice, Luciano. I’ve just never been yours.