by Shen, L. J.
My wife was fucking fantastic. It was hard to believe I’d mistaken her for a nervous, innocent girl who couldn’t stand up for herself.
Persephone was both the goddess of spring and the queen of the underworld.
“You have until the end of the day,” I repeated, taking a step back. The need to leave made the soles of my feet itch. I had better places to be. Better things to do. All of them connected to what mattered. To the person who mattered. “Drop the lawsuit and resign, then write an extensive press release kissing my ass and admitting your wrongdoings.”
I turned around to leave, knowing he was going to play into my hands.
“Cillian,” Andrew called out. I stopped, not turning around.
“How’d you do it?” he asked. “Teach yourself to feel again.”
I had a hunch I knew why he was asking me this question.
That, in fact, I wasn’t the only person who learned how to stop feeling in the process we’d gone through together that year in England.
Andrew was scarred and battered, too.
I shook my head as I slid back into my car.
“I didn’t,” I muttered. “She taught me.”
Driving back to my house, I realized that I’d taken two full days off work—more than I had since I’d finished college. I went up to my study and retrieved the contract. The one in which I’d handed over my soul to Persephone.
I was going to leave it for her in the mail. Emmabelle’s mail. Persephone had moved back to her sister’s house yesterday, after visiting my office.
I’d tried to implement rules, terms, and conditions for my wife to have my soul. Never taking into consideration the fact that the goddamn L-word did not ask for permission to be felt.
It didn’t matter what I wanted to give Persephone.
Because my love for her was a given.
And it was time she knew it.
“This came in the mail for you.” Belle tossed a thick envelope onto the kitchenette table as she made her way to the shower, stretching her arms.
It was seven in the morning. I was freshly showered, dressed, and ready for work. I hadn’t been able to sleep last night, or the night before it.
Ever since I’d left Cillian, I could barely function, but I knew I had to let him go.
For him.
For me.
“Don’t forget, we promised to visit Sailor at five. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from work.” Belle proceeded into the bathroom after a long night of work. Goes without saying, I left the Telsa back at the apartment Kill had given me.
Grabbing the envelope, I frowned.
I flipped it back and forth before tearing the thing open.
My soul-purchasing contract was there, duly signed, notarized, and apostilled.
My heart hammered against my rib cage. I unfolded the contract with shaky fingers. When a note slipped out of it, I recognized my husband’s long, bold strokes.
My soul is yours.
No terms attached.
Let me know if you have any conditions for keeping it.
I will meet them all.
Cillian
Tears welled up in my eyes.
Kill didn’t believe in souls. He was giving me something that was of no value to him. As much as I wanted to believe it, I knew I shouldn’t. Every time I chose optimism over realism in our relationship, I got burned.
Supply and demand.
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe he had a soul. I didn’t question the existence of what he’d offered me. But as I ripped the contract to shreds, disposing it in the garbage can, I began to follow the footprints of Cillian’s mind.
He knew Sailor had given birth to Rooney.
Figured the sword was close to his neck, that it was only a matter of time until Hunter produced male heirs.
Wanted me back in his house.
Back, period.
To use.
To get his rocks off.
To impregnate and discard.
I wasn’t falling into his cobweb. He saved me. I saved him. As far as I was concerned, we’d settled the score.
It was time we both moved on.
I turned around, grabbed my bag, and hurried out the door to the bike I’d parked outside the building.
Nothing of his was mine anymore.
The next day, I received a text message from my husband first thing in the morning.
I had to rub my eyes twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. He never texted me. At least, he never initiated the texts. I proceeded with caution, wondering what he’d sent me.
It was a picture of a cloud floating in a clear sky.
Cillian: Your aunt paid me a visit. She told me I was a cunt. I did not disagree.
Cillian: Have dinner with me.
I snorted out a laugh.
He was bad, but he was trying, and the fact he did made my heart thaw, no matter how badly I knew I needed to quit him.
Belle stretched beside me in bed, letting out a soft snore.
“Is it Kill?”
“Yeah.” I pressed the phone to my chest, feeling protective of him even after everything that happened.
“Don’t answer.” She shook her head. “He needs to sweat a little. See that you have a backbone.”
I deleted the message before the urge to answer it won and went about my day.
Six weeks had passed.
Six weeks, thirteen pictures from Cillian of Auntie Tilda in the sky, and a request to meet.
Now with the lawsuit out of the picture, Kill had time to put his heir plan into high gear.
I never answered any of his messages.
It wasn’t about punishing my husband; it was about making sure I had my own back. I refused to be owned, even if, initially, I had been bought.
Six weeks after Rooney Fitzpatrick came into this world, I filled out my divorce papers.
I sat at the family lawyer’s office that smelled and bled of the eighties, feeling her eyes on me the entire time as I signed all the paperwork.
“You sure you wanna do this?” she asked for the thousandth time, letting out a smoker’s cough. She reminded me of Joey from Friends agent, Estelle. “I mean, you won’t hear any complaints from me. I’m getting my fee, but the Fitzpatricks aren’t a bad family to marry into, child.”
“I’m sure.” I signed the last page, pushing it across the desk in her direction. “Can you send it to him, please?”
She shook her head.
“Sorry. Your spouse must be served in person. And it has to be by a sheriff, who will then give you proof via return of service.”
A sheriff.
The list of people I knew who would pay good money to watch Cillian being served divorce papers by law enforcement was longer than War and Peace. But I didn’t want to cause Kill any more trouble or humiliation.
“Is it really necessary?”
Just this morning, Cillian left me another message with a cloud.
Cillian: Spoke to your aunt (if you tell anyone I conversed with a cloud, I will flat out deny it). She said I should take you on a honeymoon. I bought tickets.
He seemed undeterred. At the same time, I appreciated him giving me my space. He never once showed up on my doorstep or bulldozed into my life like he used to.
“Yes,” said the lawyer, bobbing her head like a dashboard dog. “Maybe you should talk to him if you’re so unsure. If you’re going to divorce a man, at least give him the courtesy of expecting it.”
I stood, collecting the papers.
“I’ll let him know.”
I had to.
I wasn’t going to stay in a loveless marriage.
Even if it was to the love of my life.
“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 bac
k 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.
Speaking of Athair, I spotted the old sod pacing the boardroom from the corner of my eye and made a quick, sharp turn toward it. An overhead TV replaying my press conference danced on the wall behind him. Upon a closer look, I saw Mother was there, too, perched on one of the seats by the kidney-shaped desk, fixing her makeup.
I opened the door, closed it, and waited for the storm. I didn’t have to wait long.
“You little piece of—”
“I would not finish that sentence if I were you.” I raised my open palm, wearing an easy smile on my face. “You’re talking to the CEO of Royal Pipelines. Disrespect me, and you’ll find yourself escorted out of my building.”
“Your building?” he sputtered. “That’s a good one. No. You would never,” my father spat out. I didn’t have to grace that with an answer. He already knew I was capable of pretty much anything.
He fell into one of the seats, grabbing his head in his hands, shaking it. “I don’t understand.”
“I am under no obligation to make sense to you,” I informed him.
“Green Living dropped the lawsuit. This could’ve been the most lucrative oil-rig operation in the world. I mean, you were the one who pushed for it. You were the head of research. You spent three goddamn months living on an iceberg, managing this project closely. This was your baby, Cillian.”
“Yes,” I said. “And now I’m interested in another baby. A human one. Which is why I’d like my wife to be as content as she can be.”
“This is what it’s about?” Mother jumped to her feet, finally justifying her oxygen consumption in the room. “Sweetie, we appreciate you marrying this…this sweet, common girl, but there are others out there. Just as pretty, and they won’t interfere with your business.
I didn’t interfere with your father’s business.”
“No,” I agreed. “You also had jack-shit to say about anything, from our upbringing to our education. At the risk of sounding disrespectful—which, by the way, I am happy to take—I don’t want your kind of marriage. It looks awful, inside and out. I don’t want manageable. I don’t want my wife to be a ghost of a mother. A yes woman. A prop. And I like my common wife just fine, Mother.”
More than like her.
Persephone sacrificed more for me in our short marriage than Mother did since I was born.
“This beats the entire purpose of you getting married!” my father thundered, jumping to his feet. “Losing this 1.4-billion-dollar opportunity for a…for a…”
“Say it.” I smirked. “For pussy, right? No other organ in a woman’s body counts for you. Least of all a heart.”
It didn’t for me, either. Not until recently.
“Yes!” my father boomed, throwing his arms in the air, his face red, a drop of saliva staining his lower lip. “If I knew that was the case, I’d have never pushed you to get married.”
“I’m glad you did.” I opened the glass door. “This marriage has taught me an important lesson. A lesson Evon, Yale, and Harvard combined couldn’t. Now, allow me to apply some of the conclusions I’ve come to in recent months and throw you the hell out of my office—yes, my office, if I put in the sixty hour work week, I’m the one calling the shots—with this tip: never, ever tell me what to do with my job, my life, and my marriage.”
I jerked my chin out the door. Both my parents stared at me, wide-eyed.
“Go on. You know how to use your legs, don’t you?”
Walked away from me enough times in your lives, I was tempted to add.
Mother’s eyes glittered while she tried to pull herself together while Athair kept a solemn, dignified expression. The line had been drawn. They began to make their way out of the office. Mother stopped by the door and cupped my cheeks, gazing up at me.