Page 113 of Insta Bride
Susannah had spent a weekend talking through Softli’s three- and five-year vision. She hadn’t helped me with my pitch, but had made the introductions to CIO, Darius Patera, who’d ensured Maddox took my call.
Now, the only thing standing between me and the Softli account, was Elena’s ex and his bruised ego. Grad school didn’t prepare me for this sort of bullshit.
“How much does the Softli account mean to you? Financially?”
“It would be a hefty commission—you know that.” There was no point in lying.
My bank balance was looking a little shady since losing the deals while I was on the island. The influencer dollars I’d counted on had been on offer—but at a cost I hadn’t been willing to pay. Elena. If I wanted to promote the shit out of our marriage; if I’d been willing to turn up to the opening of an envelope with my wife by my side—then we could have capitalised on our fifteen minutes of fame.
I no longer wanted the fame.
I wanted my wife.
Fuck. I’d thrown away everything I’d thought I’d wanted, for my wife.
“Get to the point.” I checked the time on my phone. How could twelve minutes have gone so slowly? It felt like I’d been putting up with his ass for hours.
“Fine. You walk away from Elena and the Softli account is yours.”
“What the fuck?”
“Oh, Kye. I thought you were smarter than that. Catch up. You walk away from Elena but get the Softli account in return. The commission, from my reckoning, is worth half a million dollars over three years. You’ll be back to being single, the publicity of the breakup will put you on the social map and you can go back to screwing anyone you want.” Maddox gave me the smile I assumed was reserved for serial killers. “Other than my future wife. You will never see, contact or in any way engage with Elena again. I’ll even send you details of her divorce lawyer.”
“You’ve engaged a fucking divorce lawyer?”
“I’ve even paid the retainer. A show of confidence if you will. Elena or the Softli commission. Your choice, but the clock is ticking. I’m coming after the woman I love, and nothing you can do will stop me. Take my offer and at least you’ll be able to sleep with your commission and any woman it buys.”
I felt the veins in my neck fill with blood. Clenching my fists together to avoid a night, or year, in jail, I gulped air. Needing to bring my heart rate down to something closer to normal before I chose my words.
I’d paused for too long. Maddox tapped his watch, “If you loved her, you’d have told me to, fuck off, by now. Guess we have the answer. Guys like you will always choose the money and the fame.”
Maddox had got it all wrong. My delay was keeping out of jail for assault with intent to murder his ass. It would have been too easy to unleash physical and verbal hell on Elena’s ex. Within seconds, I could have upturned tables, pinned him by his neck to the polished concrete floors and spit in both eyes.
I could have done all that. But, at the end of the day, once upon a time, Elena had loved this tool. I owed my wife the respect of not sending her former love through the nearest plate glass window. Even though, every part of me wanted to make him feel the pain she’d lived with for three fucking years while he’d screwed around on her and plastered his conquests on more social media platforms than I could count.
I wanted his jaw to wear the indent of my fist for weeks. Or I could adult up and let my expensive education inform my response.
The bastard smiled, waiting. He actually thought he’d played a winning hand.
“After careful consideration, I regretfully decline. My wife is not up for negotiation. How about we focus on what my firm can do for yours, after all, I’m sure that’s why Susannah Dawson suggested Darius Patera ask you to contact me in the first place.”
I’d wanted to curse, to throw punches or furniture.
But the man who deserved for Elena to call husband needed to adult up. I couldn’t wait to share the three little words that no longer made me want to choke.
I loved her. Irresponsibly, irrationally and—well I’d wanted to come up with another word but couldn’t. I loved Elena Branson. Perhaps, in time, my wife could learn to love me back.
By the time. I got home from work, Elena’s side of the wardrobe was empty. Yeah, there were some clothes that she’d been given for publicity purposes, but all her real clothes were gone.
Her makeup was gone.
Her hair dryer and hair straightener, gone.
I checked the fridge. Her bloody coconut water that I used to give her grief about because why wasn’t tap water good enough? Gone.
The oat milk she’d recently switched to for coffee? The almost new container had been tipped out with the now empty container uncharacteristically left on the bench. A sign? Probably.
Shit shit shit.