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I sat on the toilet, averting my eyes before I did something stupid.
She went behind the curtain. “What did you want to talk about?”
“What you said to me before you left.”
“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”
“You were right. I’ve taken you for granted.”
“Yeah, well, in a few months I’ll realize that and get a lawyer.”
If she had a twinge of doubt about the end of our deal, her voice didn’t
betray it.
Was that supposed to hurt as much as it did?
“I set up location tracking on your phone.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t like not knowing where you were. I’m a controlling asshole.
You can divorce me for that too.”
She didn’t answer.
“Selma thought you were interesting,” I said.
“Selma suspects I was part of the GAC. She’s not interested. She’s
curious.”
“Is that so bad?”
Water splashed behind the curtain. Plastic clicked as if a shampoo bottle
snapped closed.
“What happens when she finds out that I’m not anymore? And I’ve got
nothing but a rich husband and talent under the hood? Fucking pathetic.”
It wasn’t pathetic, but what was it? She rarely talked about herself or her
career. My job was to buy out her father’s company and sign divorce
papers.
That was going to change starting immediately.
“Maybe art’s not your thing,” I suggested.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hear me out,” I insisted as if she had a choice. “Maybe you’re at your
best doing fashion. Maybe you got a whole other skill set and talent from
your father. So when we get control of Papillion—”
“I don’t want Papillion.”
She shut off the water.
“I’m sorry?” In the damp air, under the sizzle of the shower, I couldn’t
have heard her right.
“It’s not mine.” Her hand stuck out from behind the curtain. “Can you
grab the towel?”