Kristen waited patiently on the other end of the phone until I’d finished enough to gather my thoughts. I sucked in a deep breath, silently cursing myself for having given up the meditation bullshit I’d started when we were trying to get pregnant.
When I finally got my emotions under control, I very calmly opened my mouth and then yelled at the top of my lungs, “He doesn’t listen to anyone!”
So much for under control.
“I know,” she replied somberly. “How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Fucking shit,” she whispered.
I dug through my fridge, praying that a mini bottle of wine had gotten lost somewhere in the back behind the mass amounts of Tupperware filled with leftovers. I still hadn’t mastered the art of cooking for one. A stray beer from God knows when was all I found, but I quickly twisted the top off and chugged it. Beggars can’t be choosers on the hunt for intoxication in order not to kill your ex-husband.
“This has got to stop!” I said, slamming the beer on the counter. Foam bubbled from the top. “Shit. Shit. Shit!” I rushed to the sink, making it just in time to keep it from spilling.
“You okay?” she asked.
I ignored the question. I was in no way okay. I was, however, pissed off, and she was the only one around to listen. “I don’t want his money. I didn’t get a say when he paid off the house. But I’ll be damned if I’m taking quarterly payouts.”
She was quiet for a minute. And I knew what was coming. It was the same bullshit his mom had spewed when I’d first called to ask her to make him stop sending me checks over a year ago.
“He’s trying to take care of you,” Kristen whispered.
I barked a humorless laugh as angry tears pooled in my eyes. “Don’t you dare feed me that crap. You know better than anyone that he could have taken care of me when we were married. Now, he’s lost that right.”
She sighed. “He started the company when y’all were still married. Technically, half of it should be yours.”
“Technically?” I snapped, squeezing my eyes shut and gripping the phone so tight I feared it would break. “You want to talk technically, Kristen? Because, technically, Roman started that little shithole company less than twenty-four hours after Tripp died. And, technically, he ignored me for six months to get it up and running when I needed him the most. Technically, I was grief-stricken and still went back to work three weeks postpartum so he could quit his job and play scientist. Technically, that fucking company ruined my entire life. So, you know what? Technically, I don’t want shit from Rubicon, Leblanc Industries, and, most of all, Roman.” I stopped to catch my breath when a sob tore through me.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed.
“Just make it stop,” I choked out. “It’s been two years. Make. Him. Stop.”
“Okay. Okay. Calm down. I’ll talk to him again. I’ll make Mom and Dad give it another go, too.”
My hands shook as I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m trying to move on with my life, but I swear to God he won’t fucking let me.”
“You’re right,” she replied immediately, probably fearing another explosion. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll make it stop.”
I swallowed hard and did my best to collect myself only to give up and polish the foamy beer off instead. “Thank you,” I grumbled, tossing the bottle and the check into the trash can on my way to the back door to let Loretta back in. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you just to bitch about your brother.”
“It’s okay if you did, ya know. We all know he’s a prick. It’s not a newsflash. Besides, I miss you, and if you’re only willing to call and bitch, I’ll take what I can get.”
A small smile played on my lips. “You know, I should have married you instead.”
“Damn straight. I’m a freaking catch. It’s a shame neither one of us swings that way.”
The anxiety slowly ebbed from my system, and my smile grew. “Definitely a shame.”
“Okay, now that we got the ‘Roman is an asshole’ out of our systems, what’s new with you?”
God, I’ve missed Kristen.
I toyed with the ends of my hair and then mumbled, “Jon asked me on a date.”
“What!” she shrieked so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Oh my God. What did you say?”
I sank down onto the stool and kicked my heels off. “I said, ‘Okay.’”
It was past seven when I’d last checked the clock. Still at the damn office, I was beyond fed up with my so-called “meeting.” With every intention of ending the bullshit once and for all, I extended my hand across my desk.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Simon Wells, the seventy-something-year-old founding CEO of Defender Armor, stared blankly at my proffered hand. “Mr. Leblanc—”
A slow grin grew on my lips. “Simon, I believe we’re way past the formalities. Please, call me Roman.” I pushed my hand farther across my desk and leveled him with a menacing glare. “Then get the fuck out of my office.”
His gaze jumped to mine, the corners of his eyes crinkling as they narrowed. “I’ll repeat: This is my final offer.”