Page 60 of Perfect Satisfaction

Keep your kids safe. Order those athletic cups early and often.

~Moore You Want

I kick my feet up on my desk the next night, anticipation thrumming through my veins. I’ve been giving some thought to the many ways I can torment my traitorous little wife.

Revenge. Sweet revenge.

I get to have it for her walking out on me, us. And be paid one hundred fifty million dollars to boot.

The papers are signed, sealed, and notarized—thus the need for so many lawyers.

Only one thing put me slightly off—the lengthy NDA I had to sign. “Anything learned about Ursula Moore, the Moore family, business holdings, or the Moore estate is not permitted to be used at any time now or in the future by StellaNova. If the source of such information is traced back to me, Arek Ronan, I agree to forfeit any monies owed to me by the Moore estate,” the head dude I’ve now dubbed the collectively as the counting sheep—since I sure as shit know I’m going to sleep better at night after I have that money in my account—read back to me after I scratched my name on the document.

I pull a notepad over and write Ursula’s name before circling it with a question mark. I give a rough laugh. “Even I know there’s no such thing as an absolute.”

Leaning back, I tip my bottle of water to my lips and wonder when the madness will begin.

That’s when I hear it. The even tap of a woman’s heels over the tile floor down the hall.

Click.

Click.

Click.

A surreal hush descends upon the already quiet space before emotions spiral through the room when there’s a tap on the jamb.

Because there she is in full glory.

Her shiny cap of hair.

Her blood red lips.

Perfect black dress. Hose encasing her legs that I’d bet my Jeep are pure silk. Wearing shoes that I know cost more than the rent of the apartment we shared together.

I don’t greet her. I’m too busy reconciling the reckless spitfire I married in Vegas with the seductive temptress standing in my door. Yes, I’ve seen pictures of her but it’s like viewing a painting in a catalogue instead of sitting nude for the artist. There’s no comparison between the two experiences. One is distant admiration, the other is spine-tingly provocativeness.

I tip my water to my lips as her eyes make a circle around the room. And I can’t help but think,Well, Sula, here we go again.

When her eyes meet mine, my gut clenches.

The hatred blazing from hers hasn’t abated an ounce in the nine months we’ve been apart.

I try to control my knee-jerk reaction to her, to tell her to turn her sweet ass around and keep walking when she saunters into my office, but I suppress it. Instead I casually toss off, “You look good, darling.” Since I last saw her, her beautiful face has morphed into sheer magnificence. Maybe that’s just my heart waxing poetic because she still affects me.

Maybe it’s the absence of her tears. Or maybe it’s just how I’ll always react to her.

She doesn’t bother to respond.

“Hello, Ursula.” I try again.

“Arek,” she acquiesces. Not even a smile crosses her face. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was still in mourning over her father.

“You’re looking well.”

“You look a bit worn,” she states bluntly.

I smile devilishly before deliberately provoking her on behalf of Liza, “Late night.”