Chapter 2 2

The conference room door clicked shut, cutting off Annemarie's frantic retreat. In the sudden quiet, the air conditioning hummed, a low, monotonous drone. Carlisle stood rigidly by the table, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked beneath his skin.

The door opened again. Arthur, his executive assistant, stepped inside. He carried a silver tray with two steaming cups of black coffee. Arthur moved with practiced silence, his eyes fixed strictly on the tray. He set a cup at the head of the table where Carlisle had been sitting, and another at the far end where Annemarie had just been.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. Bradford?" Arthur asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Carlisle didn't look at him. He stared out the window at the city that had made him a king, remembering a time when he had been a starving student with nothing but a dream and a girl who believed in him. Until she didn't.

"No," Carlisle said. "Just close the door behind you."

Arthur bowed slightly and left. The lock clicked again.

Carlisle rounded the table. He didn't want the coffee. He wanted to break something. He wanted to tear the room apart. He thought seeing her again would satisfy the burning resentment he had carried for six years. It didn't. Seeing her looking so fragile, so cheap in that worn coat, only made the wound angrier. He had expected expensive jewelry. He had expected the smug glow of a woman who had won the lottery. Instead, she looked like a ghost.

He sat down, his gaze falling on the folder she had left behind in her panic. Her medical records. Her bank statements. Carlisle flipped it open, his eyes scanning the pages with clinical detachment.

Her bank account had a balance of four hundred and thirty-two dollars. Her rent was three months overdue. There were charges for a pediatrician, a preschool in the Upper East Side, and a long list of transactions at a local pharmacy. Carlisle frowned. The Mcclains were billionaires. If she was living this poorly, something was very wrong with her fairy tale.

He picked up the coffee cup at the other end of the table, intending to pour it out. As he lifted it, the door suddenly swung open.

Annemarie stood in the doorway, breathless. Her face was pale, her eyes red. "I forgot my phone," she panted.

Carlisle set the cup down with a sharp clatter. "Convenient excuse."

"It's not an excuse," she snapped, stepping back into the room. She walked to the chair where she had been sitting, searching the floor. "I can't function without my phone. My daughter's school needs to reach me."

Carlisle watched her bend over, her hands frantically patting the carpet. Her trench coat shifted, pulling tight across her shoulders. He crossed his arms, leaning back against the table. "You didn't get far. Realized you have nowhere else to go?"

"I have options," she lied, straightening up. Her phone was trapped between the seat cushions. She grabbed it, clutching it like a lifeline. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone."

"Is that why you came crying to my firm?" Carlisle asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "You may have forgotten, Annemarie, but I know exactly how worthless your word is. You promised me forever once, and you sold me out for a bigger bank account."

"I told you to leave the past alone," she said, her voice shaking. She walked toward the door, putting as much distance between them as possible.

"Stop."

She froze, her hand on the doorknob.

Carlisle pushed off the table. He walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate. "Did you really think you could walk into my world, beg for my firm's help, and just walk away? Did you think I wouldn't want a little payback for the humiliation you put me through?"

"I didn't come here for you," she whispered, not turning around. "I didn't know you were a partner here. I swear."

Carlisle stopped inches behind her. He could smell the faint scent of cheap drugstore shampoo over the lingering smell of his own cologne. "You're a terrible liar. You always touch your ear when you lie."

Annemarie's hand immediately dropped from her ear, gripping the doorknob tighter.

"Turn around," he ordered.

She refused. She kept her back to him, her shoulders hunched defensively. "Just let me go, Carlisle. Please. We can pretend this never happened."

Carlisle reached out and grabbed her arm. He spun her around, forcing her to face him. The force of his grip was bruising, but he didn't care. He wanted to shake the truth out of her. He wanted to know why she looked so starved, why she looked at him with such terror.

"Look at me," he growled.

Annemarie raised her eyes to his. They were swimming in unshed tears. "You're hurting me."

"Good," he snarled. "Maybe now you'll understand how it feels."

He let go of her arm, but he didn't step back. He trapped her against the door with his body, his hands planted on either side of her head. "You're going to stay on this case. You're going to take my legal advice. And you are going to watch as I dismantle this perfect little life you built on lies."

"I won't let you take my daughter," she sobbed, the dam finally breaking. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

Carlisle stared at the tear. It was a punch to the gut. Six years ago, he would have died before making her cry. Now, watching her fall apart only made him feel hollow. He dropped his hands from the door, stepping back as if burned.

"Get out," he said, his voice suddenly exhausted. "Before I change my mind about helping you at all."

Annemarie didn't hesitate. She wrenched the door open and stumbled out into the hall. Carlisle watched her until she disappeared around the corner. Only then did he let out a ragged breath. He walked back to the table, his eyes landing on the coffee cup she had been near.

It was then he noticed the slight tremor in his own hands. He had touched her. He had felt how thin she was under that coat. The hollow, hungry look in her eyes wasn't an act. Annemarie Nunez was drowning, and despite every ounce of hate in his heart, a tiny, traitorous part of him still wanted to throw her a life preserver.

He picked up the phone on the table, dialing his assistant. "Arthur. Get me the Mcclain family prenuptial agreement. And find out who the hell is handling her divorce from the other side."