Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Oh, shit.” I pressed my forehead to the cool wall, shaking my head on a chuckle. “You’re really going to make me do it.”
“Make you do what?” She blinked, confused.
I looked up, ripping the words out of my mouth before I could change my mind. “I’m Victor Bates’s grandson. The grandfather I told you about. That’s him. The so-called American Armani. I’m rich. Filthy rich. One-point-three-billion-dollars rich, to be exact.”
She stared at me. The air stood still.
“You’re joking, right?” she choked out once she’d found her voice again.
I threw my arms out in a What-can-you-do? motion.
“I’m rich, which makes you rich. In fact, after this is all over”—I signaled between us—“you’ll be entitled to half of what’s mine. And I’m not going to fight you on it. You’ll be welcome to every penny. Please, please take that into consideration if you ever think of going back to Cocksucker. You deserve better. So much fucking better. And now you don’t need his money. You have mine. Just . . .” I drew in air. “Next time you fall in love, do it with someone who deserves you.”
She stared at me with so many conflicting emotions I couldn’t tell them apart. Shock. Hurt. Anger. Sympathy.
“But why—”
“Because back then you were just a woman who wanted to marry her way up,” I explained. “You meant nothing to me. Now you mean something.” Everything. “Something that’s much more than the number in my bank account. I’ll leave you my accountant’s number. He’ll fix you up with a generous allowance so you’ll be comfortable while you wait for the visa and find a job. Enough for a swanky apartment, for a closetful of designer clothes, and no need to work ever again.”
I’d just given up half my fortune, and instead of feeling like an idiot, all I felt was dull anger and a lot of fucking pain for leaving this woman. She was going to suck every penny out of the arrangement, and I’d have no one but myself to blame.
The worst part was—I wanted her to have it. Wanted her to have nice things, to live the luxurious life she’d always dreamed of. I wanted her to shove it in her ex-classmates’ faces.
“Riggs.” She started toward me, no doubt wanting to thank me for making her minted and soon to be the proud owner of a green card. Poppins had impeccable manners. But I didn’t want to hear it. I seized my backpack and photography equipment.
“I’ll see you on October twenty-second.”
“Wait!”
I pressed my lips to her forehead and rushed out before she could utter the words.
I didn’t want her thank-yous.
I wanted all of her, every single piece. Especially the one she’d put up for sale—her heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DUFFY
My husband was a billionaire.
Riggs Bates, who could fit his entire worldly possessions into his backpack, who walked around with holed socks and avoided subway fees, was rich beyond my wildest dreams.
He’d hidden it from me. And who could blame him, with the way I’d been behaving? I was so wrapped up in this idea of marrying up that he didn’t want me to . . . what? Try to make this thing real? Bamboozle him and run with the money? And why didn’t he make me sign a prenup? It wasn’t unheard of that I’d somehow find out about his financial situation.
The big irony was that I didn’t even care about the bloody money. I cared about him upping and leaving. I cared that he was healthy—I almost dropped to my knees and sobbed with relief when he told me that.
Last night, I really thought we’d patched things up. When Charlie passed away, it seemed like the universe was rearranging itself around us, making us realize what was important in life. Now I saw that for Riggs, stumbling into bed with me was nothing but a mishap.
After Riggs left, I called Laura for an urgent BFF conference. Or rather, an ex-BFF-turned-former-BFF-turned-back-to-BFF conference. She arrived with a huge Häagen-Dazs tub (bourbon praline pecan) and some wine. Before she even walked through my door, I pounced on her, crying hysterically. My reaction took me aback, because I’d been a lot more reserved and removed when BJ had announced he was buggering off for half a year.
“My goodness, Duffy, you’re showing actual human emotions.” Laura mock-checked my temperature, ushering me to my settee. “Do you have a fever? Shall we get you to the hospital?”
This, of course, only made me cry harder. I cried for two hours straight before I could find the words for what I was feeling.
“What if I can’t live without him?” I blew my nose into something that was once a tissue, I was certain of it. “He thinks I’m going to take his money. Call his accountant and . . . I don’t know, ask for an allowance or something.” I frowned at my bowl of ice cream. “Honestly, I wouldn’t even mind if we lived here, in this crappy flat, until the day we die. I just want him. Nothing else. No designer clothes, fancy handbags, and snail facials.” I sniffled. “Okay, maybe one snail facial, just to see what all the fuss is about. They say it’s life changing, you know.”