reappeared, emerging again on the New York social scene.
The private investigators sent Drakon her address, a high-rent loft in SoHo, paid for by her father. She’d started her own business as a jewelry designer and had opened a small shop down the street from her loft, locating her little store close to big hitters.
Drakon immediately flew to New York to see her, going straight from the airport to her boutique, hoping that’s where he’d find her at 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. Before he even stepped from his limousine, she walked out the shop’s front door with her youngest sister, Jemma. At first glance they looked like any glamorous girls about town, slim and chic, with long gleaming hair and their skin lightly golden from expensive spray-on tans, but after that first impression of beauty and glamour, he saw how extremely thin Morgan was, dangerously thin. She looked like a skeleton in her silk tunic and low-waisted trousers. Wide gold bangles covered her forearms, and Drakon wondered if it was an attempt to hide her extreme slenderness, or perhaps accent her physique?
He didn’t know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The only thing he knew for certain was that she didn’t look well and he was baffled by the change in her.
He let her go, leaving her with Jemma, and had his driver take him to her father’s building on 53rd and Third Avenue. Daniel Copeland could barely hide his shock at seeing Drakon Xanthis in his office, but welcomed him cordially—he was, after all, taking care of Drakon’s investment—and asked him to have a seat.
“I saw Morgan today,” Drakon had said bluntly, choosing not to sit. “What’s wrong with her? She doesn’t look well.”
“She hasn’t been well,” Daniel answered just as bluntly.
“So what’s wrong with her?” he repeated.
“That’s her business.”
“She’s my wife.”
“Only because you won’t let her go.”
“I don’t believe in divorce.”
“She’s not happy with you, Drakon. You need to let her go.”
“Then she needs to come tell me that herself.” He’d left Daniel’s office after that, and for several weeks he’d expected a call from Morgan, expected an email, something to say she was ready to meet with him.
But she didn’t contact him. And he didn’t reach out to her. And the impasse had continued until three days ago when Morgan had called him, and requested a meeting. She’d told him up front why she wanted to see him. She made it clear that this had nothing to do with them, or their marriage, but her need for a loan, adding that she was only coming to him because no one else would help her.
You are my last resort, she’d said. If you don’t help me, no one will.
He’d agreed to see her, telling her to meet him here, at Villa Angelica. He’d thought perhaps by meeting here, where they’d embarked on their married life, they could come to an understanding and heal the breach. Perhaps face-to-face here, where they had been happy, he could persuade Morgan to return to Athens. It was time. He wanted children, a family. He wanted his wife back where she was supposed to be—in his home, at his side.
Now he realized there was no hope, there never had been, and he felt stupid and angry.
Worse, he felt betrayed. Betrayed by the woman he’d vowed to love and protect, a woman he’d continued to love these past five years, because it was his duty to love her. To be faithful to her. To provide for her.
But he was done with his duty. Done with his loyalty. Done with her.
He wanted her gone.
It was time to give her what she wanted. Time to give them both what they needed—freedom.
Drakon ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the dense beard, a beard he’d started growing that day he’d learned she intended to end their marriage without uttering a single word, or explanation, or apology to him.
He’d vowed he’d grow his beard until his wife returned home, or until he’d understood what had happened between them.
It had been an emotional, impulsive vow, but he’d kept it. Just as he’d kept hope that one day Morgan, his wife, would return to him.
And she had returned, but only to tell him how much she hated him. How much she despised him. How degrading she’d found their marriage.
Drakon exhaled slowly, trying to control the hot rush of emotion that made his chest ache and burn. He wasn’t used to feeling such strong emotions. But he was feeling them now.
He headed into the small sitting room, which opened off the living room to his laptop and his briefcase. He took a checkbook to his personal account out of his briefcase and quickly scrawled her name on a check and filled in the amount, before dating it and signing it. He studied the check for a moment, the anger bubbling up, threatening to consume him, and it took all of his control to push it back down, suppressing it with ruthless intent.
He wasn’t a failure. She was the failure. She was the one who had walked out on him, not the other way around. He was the one who had fought to save their marriage, who had honored their vows, who had honored her by thinking of no other woman but his wife, wanting no other woman than Morgan.
But now he was done with Morgan. He’d give her the money she wanted and let her go and once she left, he wouldn’t waste another moment of his life thinking or worrying about her. She wanted her freedom? Well, she was about to get it.
Morgan was standing on the villa’s front steps gazing out at the sweeping drive, with the stunning view of the dark green mountains that dropped steeply and dramatically into the sapphire sea, anxiously rubbing her nails back and forth against her linen skirt, when she heard the front door open behind her.
Her skin prickled and the fine hair at her nape lifted. She knew without even turning around it was Drakon. She could feel his warmth, that magnetic energy of his that drew everything toward him, including her.
But she wouldn’t allow herself to be drawn back into his life. Wouldn’t give him power over her ever again.
She quickly moved down the front steps, putting distance between them. She refused to look at him, was unable to look at him when she was filled with so much anger and loathing.
“You had no right to send away my car,” she said coolly, her gaze resolutely fixed on the dazzling blue and green colors of the coast, but unable to appreciate them, or the lushness of the dark pink bougainvillea blooming profusely along the stone wall bordering the private drive. Panic flooded her limbs. He was so close to her she could barely breathe, much less think.
“I didn’t think you’d need it,” he said.
She looked sharply at him then, surprised by his audacity, his arrogance. “Did you imagine I was going to stay?”
“I’d hoped,” he answered simply.
She sucked in a breath, hating him anew. He could be so charming when he wanted to be. So endearing and real. And then he could take it all away again, just like that. “You really thought I’d take one look at you and forget my unhappiness? Forget why I wanted the divorce?”
“I
