She scooted next to me, wrapped in a gown that clung to her curves like I would if I wasn’t a hundred and one shades of messed up.

I produced a cigar from a box next to me, lighting it up. “Nice number.”

“Is that a compliment I’m hearing?” She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead, teasingly checking my temperature. “Nope. No fever.”

“Your beauty was never in question,” I puffed.

“What is, then?”

“Its ability to disarm me.”

She shot me a look that said she wasn’t happy with me. A look that, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I couldn’t stand. She produced something from her Valentino clutch. A piece of paper. She unfolded it. A ten-dollar note rolled out of it. Also a pen. She handed me all three.

“This is for you, by the way.”

“What am I looking at?” I scanned the paper in her hand without taking it.

“I saw this on a TV show. Billions. It’s a contract in which you sell your soul to me.”

I really should’ve made her take a drug test before I put a ring on her finger.

The amount of nonsense spewing out of that pretty mouth could keep the entire Senate busy for a century.

Then again, deep down, I knew even if the results came back saying she was hooked on meth, cocaine, heroin, and every homeless dick downtown, I still would have married her, and that was a problem.

A huge problem.

“Sign it.” She released the ten-dollar bill in my lap like I was a B-grade pole dancer. I didn’t make a move to pick it up.

“What’s the problem?” She frowned. “You already told me I can never have your heart and mentioned you don’t believe in souls. That means selling yours to me shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

The fact she was trying to philosophically challenge me made her cute enough to eat. Then again, I didn’t need much incentive to want to eat her out. Wondering how my wife’s pussy tasted was something I did often.

I’d licked my fingers after the card game on the ranch. Her scent hitting my system alone had made me painfully hard.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to take any chances.” She withdrew the contract, about to tuck it back into her purse.

“There’s no such thing as a soul,” I repeated dully.

“In that case, I’d like to buy yours.”

“How’d it end on that TV show?” I sat back, twirling the cigar between my fingers.

“Billions?” She frowned. “The girl—who has a similar set of beliefs and views on the world as you—signed the contract, proving she truly didn’t believe in her soul’s existence.”

“Amateur mistake.” I clutched my cigar between my teeth to free my hands, adjusting the necklace on my wife’s neck so the clasp wouldn’t show. “First rule in business is supply and demand. You put a price on something in accordance to how other people value it. My set of beliefs is irrelevant. You think souls exist, and therefore I will sign mine over to you for the highest price.”

“What would that price be?”

“Your full submission to our arrangement.” I plucked the pen and paper from her hand, tucking them into my breast pocket. “More on that when I figure out what that exactly entails. Subject closed.”

The need to own, conquer, banish, and discard her made me lose sleep.

It didn’t even make sense, and sense was the compass I could always count on.

Persephone made me swear, and nothing made me swear. Yet when we were on that trail, I said the word fuck. Not because I cracked two ribs—which, by the way, happened—or because I was bloodied and wounded, but because she looked scared, and I never wanted to see that emotion on her face again.

She smoothed her dress, examining me under a thick curtain of lashes.

“I’m glad we’re going to this charity event. We haven’t gone out as a couple since we got married. Paxton and I used to have date nights all the time. I miss that.”

“Where did Paxton take you?” The question slipped out before I could shove it back into my throat and choke on it. Which was what I deserved for even thinking about it.

She blew a lock of sunflower hair that flopped over her eye.

“We had an annual Disney pass. I love a good fairy tale. We used to go to restaurants, dance clubs, football games. Oh, and have picnics, sometimes. Our dream honeymoon was to go to Namibia, but we were too broke to do it.”

“Why Namibia?”

Why ask her more questions?

“I once saw a picture of the Namibian desert in a journal. The yellow dunes looked like velvet. I became obsessed with lying on one of those perfect dunes and looking up at the sun. It looked like the height of being alive. So poignant. So pure.”

So stupid.

She had the good sense to blush.

I turned back to the view zipping through the window, having heard enough about her previous relationship.

“We had a good run.”

An unfamiliar needle pricked my chest. Maybe I was having a heart attack. Spending a night in the ER would still beat Arrowsmith drooling over my wife like a horny tenth grader publicly.

“A man named Andrew Arrowsmith is going to be at the charity ball. He’s the one filing a lawsuit against Royal Pipelines.” I changed the subject.

“I know him from TV. He does morning shows and environmental panels.”

“I expect you to be on your best behavior. He’ll examine us closely, look for cracks in the façade.”

She flashed me a curious look. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this story than a lawsuit?”

“We go back. We grew up together, went to the same schools for a while. His late father worked for mine.”

“I’m guessing his departure didn’t include any employee of the year awards.”

“Athair made him do the walk of shame and blacklisted him from working at any reputable company on the East Coast. Arrowsmith Senior had a knack for embezzling.”

Persephone crossed her legs. “So this lawsuit is personal?”

I offered her a curt nod. “Arrowsmith Senior died recently.”

“Which opened the old wound, making Andrew take the job at Green Living.”

She caught up quickly. Flower Girl had been a lot smarter than I gave her credit for before I asked her to marry me.

“How come the media hasn’t picked up on it?” She readjusted my tie. This time, I didn’t move her hand away. “His hidden agenda, I mean. He’s a highly public figure.”