Chapter 329
“You’re not a liability,” Anson said, turning her to face him. He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You are a prize. You are everything.”
Eliza looked at him. She saw the obsession, yes. But right now, it looked like the only safety net she had.
“Take me to the Solomon Manor,” she said. Her voice was dead. “I don’t want to go back to the penthouse.”
“Of course,” Anson said, hiding his triumph. “Let’s go home, Eliza.”
He guided her to his car. Eliza got in, clutching the coat around her. She reached into her pocket and felt the crumpled ball of Dallas’s letter.
Be free, he had written.
She took the paper out and let it fall onto the asphalt. The wind caught it, carrying it away across the tarmac.
You want me to be free? she thought. Fine. I’m free of you.
Dallas didn’t go home. He couldn’t. The penthouse smelled like Eliza — her vanilla shampoo, her tea, her presence. If he went there, he would break.
Your next favorite read is on FindNovel.com
“The Four Seasons,” he ordered the driver. “Presidential Suite.”
“Are you sure, Boss?” Weston asked from the front seat. “The paparazzi are already swarming.”
“That’s the point,” Dallas gritted out. “Let them see me. With her.” He gestured to Yvonne.
Ten minutes later, the flashbulbs were blinding. Dallas leaned heavily on Yvonne as they walked through the hotel lobby. He let her whisper in his ear, let her hand rest on his chest. Every camera click was a nail in the coffin of his marriage.
Inside the suite, the door clicked shut.
Dallas pushed Yvonne away instantly. He stumbled toward the sofa and collapsed, his breathing ragged.
Yvonne kicked off her heels and unzipped the tactical vest, revealing a simple black t-shirt underneath. She grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the minibar, poured a glass, and handed it to Dallas.
“For the pain,” she said. “Since you refuse the morphine.”
Dallas downed it in one swallow. It burned — but not as much as the hollow in his chest where his heart used to be.
He began to unbutton his shirt. The white fabric was stained red at the side.
“Harrison is here,” Weston announced, opening the door.
Harrison, the family lawyer, walked in. He looked terrified. He took in the scene — Dallas half-undressed and bleeding, a strange woman in the room — and swallowed hard.
“Mr. Koch,” Harrison stammered. “I have the papers.”
“Give them to me,” Dallas said.
He took the divorce decree. It was standard. Irreconcilable differences.
“This is too clean,” Dallas said, his voice a low rasp. He grabbed a pen. “She’ll fight it out of pride. I want a new clause — a morality clause. Add a section stating that if she contests the divorce in any way, or refuses the settlement, all Solomon assets currently under S&D protection — including the funding for the gallery’s international exhibitions and Azalea’s research grant — will be frozen indefinitely pending a corporate review. Frame it as protecting the company from a messy public battle.”