The Billionaire Bachelor (Billionaire Bad boys #1)(79)
She'd opened the envelope. An envelope containing more than their decree. On top of Merina's signature was a wedding ring.
His wife's ring. Now your ex-wife.
Panic seized his chest as reality sank in. Finally, and deep enough that his heart cracked right down the middle. He remembered the day he'd given it to her.
The moment he'd seen her wearing the wedding dress in the shop. The instant he slid the soldered bands onto her hand during the ceremony. And when she kissed him, feeling the coolness of the ring on his cheek. The way the diamond glinted at the Van Heusen when she handed him the business card that read Merina Crane.
Their shared past flashed in his memory.
The nights in their bedroom. The mornings in the shower. That day in the kitchen. The evening she'd come here and slapped him in the face.
His knees threatened to give, and he grabbed the nightstand to keep from dropping. His hands shook. This wasn't panic. This was devastation.
Similar to when he lost his mom, a veil of dread cloaked him. He remembered when she died, thinking he'd never hug her again. He'd never hear her voice again, and worst of all, he'd never have the chance to tell her he loved her. Not ever again.
With Merina, he was a chance to do all of those things. Hug her. Hear her voice. And no matter what she felt for him now, even if she didn't want to hear it, he'd tell her for the first time that he loved her.
That he'd been lying, to her and to himself, for too long.
Even if she didn't love him any longer, she deserved to know. And he wouldn't let another minute pass without telling her.
He snagged a pair of jeans off the floor as lightning streaked the sky. Rain poured down in sheets and he let out a dry laugh.
Perfect.
Chapter 20
Merina didn't wear heartbreak well. She knew because each and every person who'd seen her recently had told her she looked tired or asked if she was getting sick.
The UPS guy, the mailman. The linen delivery guy. Her mother. Her father. Arnold, who usually minded his own business, had taken to checking on her regularly. Heather had brought Merina a cup of hot tea every evening without being asked.
Merina pretty much lived in her office. The more she worked, the easier it would be to forget she was grieving. Right?
Wrong.
Lorelei had dropped off the papers to Reese's secretary three days ago. Merina had told herself she wasn't expecting a response, but she'd waited to hear from him. No way could he allow this to happen.
He'd remained distant and silent. Nothing had changed him. Not the moment she put her heart in his hands, or given him her body one final time. Not putting off signing the divorce papers on a marriage she was far more invested in than she should've been. Not finally signing them.
He was gone.
Merina accepted this horrible fact and felt every painful prick of it like a thousand needles in her skin.
Heather had shut down the bar and Merina's parents had gone home hours ago. In her office, door cracked open, no one to witness her misery, Merina decided to feel her feels. Every last miserable one of them. An audible sob left her lips, the sound so lonely, it beckoned more sadness.
Her last period had been a relief, because the last time she and Reese slept together, neither of them had the presence of mind to use a condom. For a few terrifying days, she was sure she was pregnant. The gods had smiled on her misfortune, deciding it'd be a dick move to add a baby on top of a divorce.
So. That was good, she guessed.
She reached for a tissue and dabbed her cheeks, vowing this the last surge of emotion she'd allow to wreck her. One final torrential downpour of a cry. Which, ironically, was what it was doing outside now. The papers were signed. She'd crossed the finish line. Only a little longer and she'd soon begin to heal.
She hoped.
Merina swiped her fingers under her eyes and decided to go out to the bar for something stronger than the tepid tea on her desk. She'd been drinking too much wine lately, but she'd read an article that "situational alcoholism" was a thing.
Tonight, especially, she'd earned a glass of wine. Hell, a bottle.
Thunder rattled the walls as she slipped by the front desk, relieved to find Arnold waylaid by a late check-in. While his attention was diverted, Merina bolted around the CLOSED sign at the doorway of the bar.
Yes. A bottle of wine would do fine. Maybe she'd go into the banquet room and drink it in there. She grabbed an open bottle, and a wineglass. Tempting to drink it directly from the source, but she did have some sense of decorum.
She took two steps and stopped cold when a man wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a suit jacket stepped past the CLOSED sign. Water dripped on the carpet with a soft tap-tap from his soaking clothes.
Like the first time she'd met him, his posture was straight. In a weird gender flip of that same scenario, his clothes were adhered to his skin. His typically perfect hair was in disarray on his head, water curling the ends and dripping from his forehead down the tip of his nose.
She tried to speak. Failed.
The ladder she had been mentally climbing shook, threatening her path to recovery. She imagined herself sliding down a neighboring chute instead. No. No chutes. Only ladders.
Up, up, and a-fucking-way.
"Reese." She squared her shoulders and called up every ounce of strength she possessed, which wasn't a lot. But fake it till you make it, right? "I assume you received the papers. Later than you wanted them, I'm sure." So not the issue, but she had to keep the facts in the forefront. "I would have had them to you sooner but I wanted the timing to be right for—"
"Cut the horseshit, Crane," he cut in.
She'd said exactly those words to him once.
He walked to the bar and plunked a doorknob onto the surface. The same one she'd left on his desk the first time she'd met him. She stared at it, mouth dropped open.
"You forgot this," he said.
Her heart lunged for him and she mentally restrained it. She hated him. Or was trying to.
"Celebrating?" He dipped his chin at the bottle of wine in her hand.
She told him the truth. "Coping."
"I went with scotch. A lot of it."
"Another popular choice."
A damn doorknob was not a peace offering. She refused to see it as one.
"What do you want?" She held up a hand. "You know what? I don't want to know. I'm going to allow myself to believe you came here to drop off the Van Heusen's doorknob and be on your way." She made a shooing motion. "Go on. Swim back to your lair.