Page 4 of Fake Wife
“Get out,” I demand. “Get out of here right now, before I completely lose my shit.”
“Honey, this isn’t what it looks like.”
Everything, all of my doubts over the last several months, comes together. Every concern I’ve had, every fear that’s been niggling in my mind for months now. We’re not in a rut—
We are over.
I push down the bubbling hatred and anger and all the shit I’ve probably suspected but have been too naïve and scared to name for at least six months and turn to Drake.
“Give me an hour to clear out. I’ll leave my key on the counter when I leave.”
“Honey.” He steps toward me and I take a step back.
The blonde is still getting dressed, and if she is bothered he’s not paid an ounce of attention to her she’s not showing it. Great. He’s not even cheating on me with someone that matters, he’s just fucking people he doesn’t give a crap about.
“Please, Drake. It’s over. If you can do this”—I wave my hand out—“and in our bedroom no less, we have nothing left.”
“But—”
I shake my head, tears spilling down my cheeks. I swipe them away. Damn it! How many times can I cry today?
“Don’t.” I stare at him, show him every ounce of pain I’m feeling, and only see a minimal amount of pain reflecting back in his eyes. God, that hurts, too. “Don’t fight me on this. Just give me an hour to get out of here.”
Without giving him time to answer, I hurry to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
Then I sit down on the closed toilet seat, throw my head into my hands, and bawl my eyes out.
Fired from my job.
A cheating boyfriend exposed right in front of me.
What in the heck am I going to do now? And where am I going to go?
Chapter 2
Corbin
I tug on my platinum cuff links, one of my last gifts from Eleanor. Irritation isn’t prickling at my spine, it’s a bubbling, livable force threatening to explode.
Except now isn’t the day.
I spent an hour this morning at the funeral home and then the cemetery where Eleanor was buried. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I’d barely been able to choke out the eulogy I gave at the funeral service, too many emotions, too many memories colliding inside my chest and making it burn.
Gone.
Fuck. It shouldn’t be a surprise. The woman is—was—eighty-nine years old.
On the other hand, just last week she was still taking her daily swim in the ocean, sexually harassing her twenty-four-year-old pool boy, teasing him about someday showing up and cleaning her pool in a mankini instead of his company’s khaki pants and green polo shirt.
The woman is crazy.Was.
Shit. I yank at the tie wrapped around my collar.
It’s more of a noose than an accessory at this point.
My grandma has been the only woman in my life for as long as I can remember. I have parents; they’re just either depressed, drunk, or assholes, depending on the day. All my good memories are wrapped up in Eleanor and her mansion on a bluff overlooking the ocean.
It’s fucking spectacular. And while I already knew someday she was going to die and leave me her land and her house as my inheritance, I certainly never expected to receive the bomb Eleanor’s lawyer has dropped in my lap.
