Amie

“This is me.” I turn to Lex, who looks amazing and exhausted, the latter of which I’m sure is mirrored in me. Neither of us has slept, not even for a second. My lips are chapped, my body is sore, muscles aching and tight. My eyes are puffy and they feel like they have sand in them every time I blink.

He rolls my carry-on to a stop, which he insisted on being responsible for. This time it’s not full of sex toys, those are checked, so I won’t have to worry about being embarrassed while going through security.

He sweeps my hair over my shoulder and smiles. That’s his thing, I realize, the hair touching. He did it countless times last night. When we weren’t having sex, we were touching endlessly, like we were trying to fit in a lifetime of physical connection into those remaining hours.

“Thanks for making my honeymoon not suck.” I laugh at how awful that sounds. God, this is harder than I thought it would be. I can’t decide if I don’t want to go home because of what I have to face, or because I really don’t want to leave Lex, or if it’s a combination of both, or if one influences the other. My emotions are frayed like spliced wire.

“Thanks for making this the best work trip I’ve ever been forced to take.” He steps into me, wrapping me up in a tight hug.

I press my face into his chest, willing the tears not to come, but they do anyway. I should be out of them by now. My body shakes with the effort to silence the sob pushing its way up my throat. Lex’s lips brush my temple, his palm curving to cup the back of my head. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby, everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. You’re stronger than you realize.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I know. I don’t want you to go either.” He tips my chin up. His eyes meet mine for the briefest moment before they fall closed, sealing his emotions behind them. Ones I recognize. Ones that feel all too familiar. He dips down to press a soft kiss to my lips.

I’m sure he means to keep it chaste, but the second we connect all the desperation comes bubbling to the surface, erupting like a volcano, and suddenly we’re devouring each other. I feel the loss of him in my chest already. I don’t want to walk away from this, but there’s no other choice. This isn’t love, this is lust and comfort, this is a diversion from a life I don’t want to go back to. These are the things I tell myself so I’ll be able to let him go.

I pull away first. His resigned sigh echoes in my heart. He presses his lips against my forehead and then releases me. When our eyes meet his gaze is void of emotion, as if he’s shut them all down, locked them away. I don’t know if I’m as successful at hiding the way I feel right now.

His voice is as flat as his expression. “Have a safe flight.”

My smile is forced, weak. “I will.”

“Bye, Amalie.” I like it better when he calls me Amie.

“Bye, Lex.” I grab the handle of my carry-on. My legs feel wooden as I walk toward the security check. Tears track down my cheeks and drop to my shirt faster than I can wipe them away. I don’t turn to see if he’s still there.

I don’t understand why it feels like my heart is cracking open in my chest. Or why this ending hurts so much worse than what Armstrong did to me.

My security check goes without incident. I sit in the lounge and order a breakfast that goes uneaten, my exhaustion so complete that all I can do is periodically lift the napkin in my lap to wipe away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s no relief in getting on the plane, just dread rooting itself deep in my stomach, making it roll.

An elderly woman who apparently doused herself in an entire bottle of perfume takes up the seat next to me. She seems rather preoccupied with my teary face and my constant sniffles, but my one-word responses eventually dissuade her from her continued questions and I’m able to close my eyes. The tears don’t stop for a long time, and my mind is spinning, but I finally fall asleep with the help of some sinus meds and a small bottle of champagne.

The eighteen-hour flight home seems to take twice as long, even though I sleep through a good portion of it. My eyes are puffy and swollen, so I cover them with sunglasses. Cold New York weather greets me after I’ve collected my bags. The dismal, dreary winter the perfect accompaniment to my somber mood.

My apartment is exactly how I left it; tidy, apart from a few papers on the counter and the checklist for the wedding stuck to the fridge. I tear down the list and the magnet keeping it there falls to the floor, breaking in two neat pieces. It’s a heart with Armstrong + Amalie written in the middle. I toss the fragments into the garbage, thinking about how it’s pretty much my life right now; fractured crap. I haven’t checked email once since I’ve been away, which was probably a bad idea, but then so was marrying Armstrong. Complete avoidance mode seemed easier than dealing with life for the past three weeks.

I fire up my laptop. While I wait for the updates to load, I message Ruby to let her know I’m home safely. Lex’s contact sits below it, my mother farther down, my brothers below that. I kept in touch with everyone while I was away, but there was no real discussion about how I would handle things with Armstrong upon my return, beyond getting him to sign the annulment papers, which still hasn’t happened.

I stare at my phone for a long while, debating whether I should let Lex know I’m home. He didn’t ask me to message. At no point did he suggest continued communication once I returned to New York, and neither did I. And as much as I want to maintain contact, I don’t know that it’s fair to him or me. We defined the boundaries in Bora Bora. It can’t be anything more. Not while I’m still married and not while I’m trying to put my life back together.

Besides, I don’t even know if it’s possible for it to be more anyway. Being together will complicate his life and mine, especially since he’s related to my soon - to - be - ex - husband. I can’t imagine Lex wanting to invite that kind of discord into his life. Keeping the lines of communication open will just confuse things—and make it harder for me to let go.

I scroll through the endless messages back and forth over the past weeks. And, of course, I start to cry again. I miss him so much already. Which is why I go to his contact, scroll down, and hover my thumb over the red delete button. I have to take several deep breaths before I screw my eyes shut and touch the screen, erasing him. My heart aches sharply, and my regret is immediate and painful as tears pool and fall. My reaction to this loss is how I know I’ve done the right thing. I can’t change what’s happened between us, or make it more than what it is.

After half an hour of tears, I finally get it together and log into my email. I have 357 new ones. This requires coffee. I put on a pot, take a much-needed shower while I wait for it to brew, and return to my laptop feeling slightly refreshed. Not even close to decent, but better than I did fifteen minutes ago. I begin the process of opening emails, responding to the important ones, deleting anything junky.

I’m through the first two hundred—most of them emails from all the wedding vendors I subscribed to—when I spot the one from work, which is odd, since this is my personal account. I wasn’t even going to tackle the work ones until later. I’m not expected for another two days. Not that I’m going to go in. At least not to perform any kind of actual job. My plan is to draft a resignation letter and drop it off. I have enough contacts in this industry, I’m highly employable, and the last thing I want is to be under Armstrong’s thumb.

I click the email, which is tagged as urgent. A single paragraph appears on the screen; it’s from Armstrong’s personal assistant, Savannah. I wonder if she’s on the list of women he cheated on me with.

I have to read the email twice before it sinks in. I’m being transferred to another department. Or I already have been. The date seems to correspond quite nicely with our second altercation in Bora Bora. As I read on, my irritation turns to rage. Based on my new job title this isn’t a department transfer, it’s a demotion. My salary is being cut by nearly fifty percent.

That fucker.

I have to hold on to the edge of the table so I don’t throw my computer, or my coffee mug, or any other breakable thing across the room.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise, now that I’ve experienced the real Armstrong. There’s no way he’s getting away with this. I shove away from the table and stalk to my bedroom, aggressively searching my closet for my most professional-yet-sexy outfit. I ruin three pairs of hose with my jabby frustration. Anger is so much easier to manage than sadness and heartbreak.

I’m further delayed by my rightful wrath-fueled vengeance when I realize my eyes are still disturbingly puffy. I have to lie on my bed for thirty minutes with chamomile tea bags over them until the swelling has gone down enough that I look human again.

I spend another forty-five minutes on makeup that looks deceptively natural, a few minutes on my hair, which thankfully doesn’t need much work, and then I gather all of Armstrong’s things, print out the paperwork Pierce and his colleague sent me regarding the annulment, and call an Uber.

The eyes of my soon-to-be-former colleagues follow me as I strut, head held high, through the office. I feel none of my fake confidence as I spot Savannah sitting at her desk, the very pretty barrier barring my way to Armstrong’s office. She furiously thumb types a message on her phone when she sees me coming, but I pick up the pace, heedless of the pain in my big toe—I’d forgotten how beaten up the nail was after two weeks without heels.

I slam Armstrong’s box of crap on her desk, causing her to fumble her phone. Before she can recover, I snatch it from her desk.

She pushes up and hisses lowly. “That’s mine! You can’t be here!”

I hide it behind my back. “Oh? I can’t be here? I work here, Suzanna.”

“It’s Savannah.” She comes around the desk as I check the message she just sent. It’s a warning to Armstrong that I’m here. Except she refers to me as the Frigid Bitch. I’m far from frigid. She makes a grab for the phone, but I hold it over my head. I’m taller than she is by several inches, so it’s well out of reach.

I recognize that I’m being extremely juvenile, that people are watching this exchange. I should be leaving this job with some dignity still intact, but based on the way people are whispering and looking at me, I have a feeling that’s not the way it’s going to go down, so I’m going to be my best bad self.

“What else would I find if I scrolled through these messages? Huh, Shannon?”

The rapid flutter of her lashes and her wide-eyed, panicked stare indicate that I already have the answer. Her fists clench and release, she takes a step forward, then stops. “Don’t make a scene.”

I laugh. Loudly. If I’m going to embarrass myself, I’m taking her along for the ride. “Don’t make a scene? Don’t make a scene?” I cross my arms over my chest. “I know.”

“Know what?” She’s a terrible liar.

“Oh come on. You’ve been blowing my goddamn husband.”

She blinks like she’s staring at a strobe light. “I-I-I. You’re . . . you . . . I’m not—”

I wave my hand dismissively. “You’re just one of many mouths he likes to put his dick in, so don’t feel special. Speaking of the cheating dickbag, where is Armstrong?”

Her spine straightens. “You’re just jealous because you weren’t enough for him.”

Dear God, I have never wanted to bitch slap someone so much as I do right now. I don’t bother responding. She’s right, in a way. I’m not enough for him, but no one seems to be. How someone can have such a big ego when they lack competence in the bedroom is a real wonder. I’m stunned by how many women are willing to put his subpar penis in their mouth. I have to wonder exactly what these women are getting out of it.

I move around her, toward his office. I have a resignation letter to submit and annulment papers to hand him, since he’s been avoiding them.

She rushes to get in front of me in her hooker heels and her Ace bandage skirt. “He’s not in his office.”

Seriously, her acting skills are weak. “Oh no?”

“He’s in a meeting. You can’t see him right now.”

“Really? Well, Shelly, since I’m still legally his wife, I’m pretty sure I have a right to do whatever I feel like.”

I fake right and she stumbles back a step, clearly afraid of me, which is smart. I’m a bit unhinged right now. I yank open the door, half hoping his meeting is with one of the women he’s cheated on me with.

Unfortunately, it’s not. It’s some plugged-up CEO type who I vaguely recognize.

“Amalie!” Armstrong feigns surprise, his wide eyes darting to Savannah in accusation.

“You pencil-dicked little shit.”

He laughs, as if it’s a joke, and nervously tugs his tie. “I’m in the middle of a meeting, darling. Now really isn’t the time.” Warning puts bite into his tone.

Screw his disapproval.

“It’s too bad I don’t really give a fuck what you’re in the middle of. You know what else is too bad, that you didn’t give a fuck that we were in the middle of our wedding reception when you decided to get a blow job from someone who wasn’t me! And then you have the gall to demote me? You’re a spineless sonofabitch.” I’m surprised I haven’t broken glass with the way my voice rises. I take it down a notch or seven as I address Mr. Plugs. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. This will just take a minute.”

Armstrong lifts a hand to placate him, which is stupid, because I’m about to go off. All these months of pent-up irritation are about to explode out of me. “It’s fine, there’s no need to leave, Thurston.”

His gaze darts back and forth between me and Armstrong. “You clearly have bigger issues to deal with at the moment.”

“Amalie can come back when our meeting’s over, can’t you, darling?”

I flip him the bird. “Don’t you darling me, you cheating ass.”

Armstrong’s smile is appropriately strained as he tugs on his tie. “I’ll have Savannah call you to reschedule.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“But we—”

He stops him with a wave of his hand. “I’ll call your father and explain. I’m not sure a merger with Moorehead Media is in our best interests right now.”

He gathers his briefcase and turns his rueful smile on me. “Miss Whitfield, I hope the next time I see you it’s under better circumstances.”

I return his smile with a fake one of my own. “Me too. My apologies for interrupting your meeting, but I just found out my useless husband demoted me while I was out of the country and he was off screwing around on me with every debutante in New York.” I’m definitely unbalanced. Thank God the door is closed and it’s only Armstrong and Thurston here to witness my spiral down.

Thurston purses his lips and glances at Armstrong, his distaste clear. “I might just stop by your father’s office so I can explain in person why I feel like business with this company is an unsavory option.”

As soon as he leaves Armstrong slaps his palm on the table. “What the hell is wrong with you? You just sabotaged a deal!”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” I toss the phone on the desk. “That’s Savannah’s.”

He blinks and blinks again.

“Nothing to say about that?” I cock my head to the side. “How many of your employees are you screwing around with? What kind of incentive are you providing for their services, because it certainly isn’t your exemplary bedroom skills.”

His smooths his tie again, as is his nervous habit. “This kind of childish reactionary behavior is rather beneath you, don’t you think, Amalie?”

“You’re one to talk! Doesn’t demoting me fit into that category?”

“You assaulted me and threatened me. You used my credit card without my permission, destroyed my personal property, whored yourself out during our honeymoon. You’re lucky my lawyer convinced me not to press charges or sue you.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t even recognize the man I’m looking at right now. Or maybe I do. Maybe I chose not to see this version of him, always lurking beneath the pretty, polished exterior. “Who are you?”

“You need to consider carefully how you want to proceed, Amalie. Some things we just need to put behind us, don’t we? Now it’s clear you’re still struggling with how this is going to work—”

“I’m not struggling at all.” I slap the annulment papers on his desk.

He frowns. “What are these?”

“Annulment papers. The same ones you’ve been sent three times, according to Pierce. Sign them.”

“You’re being rash, Amalie.”

“What planet are you living on? How delusional are you? You’ve admitted to cheating on me even though you don’t think blowjobs qualify for whatever convoluted reason. Just sign the papers and this can be over.”

He slides them calmly across the desk and shuffles them together. “I’ll have my lawyer review them.”

I fight with my fists not to slam into his horrible, smug face. With shaking hands I withdraw my letter of resignation from my bag and drop it on the desk. “I quit, by the way.”

“Are you certain you want to do that?”

I don’t understand how he can be so calm. I think he might actually be psychotic. “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.” I lean in close, meeting his placid blue gaze. There’s no emotion behind him. Nothing at all. “I hate you, Armstrong. I loathe you. You make me sick, the thought of you ever touching me again makes me want to vomit. If I never see you again it would be too soon.”

“Well that’s not going to happen, is it? Your best friend is dating my cousin. It’s only a matter of time before Bancroft proposes. I’ve heard he’s only holding off because of your unstable mental state.”

His words are a slap in the face. Ruby and Bane having been living together for a while, but it hasn’t even been a year. I can’t tell if this is Armstrong’s way of baiting me, or if this ridiculousness he’s spewing actually has merit.

“And even if he doesn’t propose, we’re bound to be at the same events, dinners, that kind of thing. You’ll come around eventually, Amalie. I’d hoped your time in Bora Bora would have gotten all this rebellion out of your system, but it’s clear you need more time. You should try to get yourself under control soon, before you completely undo all my hard work.” He gestures to my face. “I’m amazed you would leave the house looking like that.”

“You’re unbelievable.” I have to force myself away from him, lest I wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until his stupid, unjustly inflated head pops off.

I leave before I can say or do anything else that could get me sued. Or sent to prison.