Chapter 330
Harrison dropped his briefcase. “Sir? You want to threaten her legacy? The press will crucify you. The board —”
“I don’t care about the board,” Dallas snarled. “I want her to have everything, and this is the only way she’ll take it and run. She has to believe I’m a monster. Now do it.”
Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hallway. Shouting.
The door burst open.
Eliza stood there. She was still wearing Anson’s coat, her hair windblown. She had seen the news. She had seen the photos of them entering the hotel.
She looked at the room.
Dallas was half-naked on the sofa, his shirt open. Yvonne was standing by the bedroom door holding a towel, looking as though she had just stepped out of the shower.
It was a tableau of betrayal, perfectly staged.
“You really are here,” Eliza whispered. Her voice broke.
Dallas looked up. He forced his face into a mask of boredom and buttoned his shirt slowly, hiding the blood-soaked bandages beneath.
“You followed me,” he said, his voice flat. “This is what you wanted to see, isn’t it? Proof.” He gestured vaguely at Yvonne. “This isn’t your concern anymore, Eliza.”
Eliza flinched as if he had hit her. Her eyes filled with a horror so profound it made Dallas want to die.
She walked across the room, her steps steady. She stopped in front of him.
Slap.
The sound was like a pistol crack. Eliza put her entire body weight into it. Dallas’s head snapped to the side.
He tasted blood. He didn’t move. He didn’t raise a hand to his cheek. He simply looked back at her, his eyes cold.
“Are you done?” he asked.
“I hate you,” Eliza said. “I hate you more than I ever hated Anson.”
“Good,” Dallas said. “Harrison, give her the papers.”
Harrison, shaking, held out the folder.
Eliza looked at it. Then she grabbed it.
She didn’t sign it. She ripped it in half. Then in quarters. She threw the pieces in Dallas’s face.
“You want a divorce?” she screamed. “You want to be free — to be with her? No. I won’t give it to you. I will drag this out. I will make you suffer. I will stay your wife until the day you die just to spite you!”
She turned and ran out of the room. The door slammed.
Dallas sat there, the fragments of paper settling on his shoulders like snow.
He held his breath until he was sure she was gone.
Then he leaned forward and vomited blood onto the expensive Persian rug.
“Boss!” Weston yelled, rushing forward.
“Let her hate me,” Dallas gasped, his vision tunneling. “Just — let her live.”
Darkness took him.
Eliza locked herself in the master bedroom of the Solomon Manor.
The house was cold, smelling of dust and old memories. It was fitting. She felt like a ghost haunting her own life.