“My wife was bleeding to death on that bathroom floor while I was drinking champagne with you! My baby died while you were laughing in my ear! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”
Advertisement
Vivian stumbled backward into the corridor, her silk robe catching on the brass doorstop, her eyes wide with shock and venomous hatred as Collins stepped between them, his hand gesturing firmly toward the staircase:
“Miss Cross,” Collins said without inflection: “The vehicle is waiting outside.”
Marcus did not watch her leave.
He fell to his knees beside our bed, his hands clawing at the white duvet, burying his face in the fabric that still held the faint, sweet scent of my jasmine soap.
Advertisement
For two hours, the most feared CEO in San Francisco wept into the empty pillows, his tears soaking into the linen alongside the sonogram of the child he had traded for a cocktail toast.
