The Villain

“Can I turn on the local news?” Ms. Gwen swooped the remote control from one of the round tables in the teachers’ lounge, pointing it at the television and switching the channel from sports. A couple of the male teachers groaned in protest.

I poked at my microwaved pasta, sitting in the back of the room, trying not to think about how Belle had promised to deliver the divorce papers to Cillian as soon as she woke up today, which should be at about two in the afternoon.

I couldn’t go forward with the sheriff thing. I just couldn’t imagine putting him through this. The humiliation. The embarrassment. The publicity of all this.

Still, the limbo had to stop. I had to move on.

“What are we watching?” Ms. Hazel plopped next to Ms. Gwen and me, popping a salt and vinegar chip into her mouth. “Wait, is that a press conference?”

“Breaking news.” Ms. Michelle sounded startled. I kept my head down as they cranked up the volume. I heard the muttering of press people ahead of a conference, and then the intense hushed voices and loud clicks of the cameras when the person who was speaking got onstage. I refused to lift my eyes from the dish I wasn’t even eating. I had this thing again where I knew if I made one move—even trail my gaze up an inch—the tears would start falling.

“Hey, Pers, what’s your hot guy doing on the news?” Ms. Michelle chirped.

“Breaking her poor colleagues’ hearts, that’s what he’s doing.” Ms. Gwen chuckled. “Emphasis on the word poor. What’re you still doing here, Persy? Did you not get the memo you’re loaded?”

“Why, hello there, honey,” whistled Ms. Regina to the TV screen in a manner I knew Cillian would hate. “You can ruin my natural resources any day of the week.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for coming here today. As I mentioned, this statement will be brief, and, like my temper, short.”

My eyes snapped up from my frozen meal. My throat clogged.

Cillian was standing there. My husband—at least for now—in one of his gloriously dark gray suits, dashing silk dark hair, and the hooded expression of a predator on the prowl. Seeing his face again reminded me why I’d insisted he would never seek me out. It disarmed me completely.

His voice. His presence. His smoky amber eyes.

The cameras clicked enthusiastically. It was bizarre to see the man I’d spent countless nights with on a television screen, delivering a message to the city of Boston.

Was he announcing our divorce?

Did Belle serve him yet?

“Despite proving to be a great financial resource and revealing strong potential in getting our hands on more oil, Royal Pipelines has decided to stop the Arctic exploration drillings immediately and indefinitely. All the scheduled rigs will be shut down, future plans are shelved, and the current running trials will cease to operate as of”—he raised his arm, checking his designer watch with a frown—“exactly fifteen minutes from now.”

Murmurs and gasps exploded across Royal Pipelines’ media room. Journalists and reporters shouted questions about Green Living, Andrew Arrowsmith, and the potential clash with Greenpeace, who were rumored to pick up the lawsuit where Arrowsmith left off.

My heart beat so fast I thought I was going to faint.

Kill raised his hand nonchalantly, stopping the stream of questions.

“As I said, the statement will be brief, and I will not be taking any questions. In addition to stopping all oil-rig actions, as of this afternoon, I am also the proud owner of the surrounding Arctic areas which have shown potential and promise to discover oil, meaning Royal Pipelines currently holds all the reserves and options for anyone to drill in the Arctic. Ever.

“I will explore cleaner options in my bid to grow Royal Pipelines’ capital and am still committed to employ tens of thousands of Americans. In fact, I would like to inform our investors that I already got my hands on something far more lucrative than the Arctic and not nearly as destructive.”

The winning, villainous smile he shot the camera was of someone who was having a checkmate moment, not someone who had just given up his flagship operation. But that was Cillian. Always three steps ahead of the game.

“The reason for my executive decision has nothing to do with Green Living. As you’re aware, Green Living had decided to drop the case against Royal Pipelines. As of today, no one had managed to pick it up and carry it through. The reason for my decision is entirely personal.

“As some of you know, I married less than a year ago. One of the things my wife taught me was to listen. This is me listening to what she had to say. She’s been outspoken against drilling in the Arctic throughout our short marriage.” He paused, twisting his mouth grimly. “She drives a Tesla, you see.”

The journalists and photographers erupted in laughter. A few colleagues shot me curious glances. My peers always asked me what I was doing here. As if waking up for work was some sort of punishment. Like they wouldn’t miss our students if they quit work. I mostly ignored it, but the truth was, I liked keeping my job because I didn’t know if Cillian was going to keep me.

I tried to blink back the tears, averting my gaze from the TV.

I told him not to contact me, and he kept on finding new and creative ways to reach out to me.

It took me months to turn my back on us, but I never took into consideration there may be a game changer.

That Cillian might wake up and fight for us.

“Anyone interested in hearing a joke about that time Kill drilled the Arctic but stopped because someone thawed his icy heart?”

Hunter snorted when I got off the stage, pacing behind me. Devon followed.

“No,” Devon and I barked in unison.

Hunter nodded. “’Kay. Good talk.”

We slipped through the back door, taking the elevator back to the management floor. I kept checking my watch, wondering when an appropriate time would be to try calling my wife. I finally got it. How badly it sucked to be ignored. I’d ignored Persephone for months when I had her in my bed, sweet and willing.

Her texts, her words, her quirky observations. They were all mine for the taking.

Now I had to do the chasing, and I had to admit—they weren’t kidding when they called Karma a bitch.

The elevator dinged. I strode out to my office, waving at Hunter to get as far as humanly possible away from me. I was a surly son of a bitch these days. I cursed. I shouted at employees. I did a lot of mortal things people weren’t used to from me. The other day, I said fuck while golfing with my father. He almost had a stroke.