Me: He is my husband.

Hunter: I thought that was only on paper.

Me: You thought wrong.

Hunter: Other than the phone shit, he looks like the same old Kill to me. Chain-smoking, drinking devil who needs a good hug and a great fuck.

Me: Night.

Hunter: Obvs, silly. x

Cillian had managed to overcome whatever it was that happened to him in less than an hour. That was peculiar. And alarming. But at least I knew he was remorseful enough to check his phone for a message from me.

Guilt was a feeling, after all.

Unless he is checking it for work-related stuff.

When dawn broke over the sky, I padded to my terrace barefoot, relishing the heated floorboards and extravagant French doors. Looking outside, I spotted a lone cloud sailing north.

“What do I do, Auntie Tilda?” I whispered.

She didn’t answer.

I picked up my phone to type my sister a text. Ask her if she remembered the days when Auntie took us to the carnival. How delirious with joy we were.

To my surprise, there was a message waiting for me.

A message from a number that had yet to answer all twenty-seven text messages I had sent it while I planned our mutual wedding.

Cillian: It won’t happen again.

Even though I knew exactly what he meant, I decided to press where it hurt. Lure him out of his cave a little more.

Me: The sex part, or the part that came after it?

Cillian: The part I’m not proud of.

What was he doing awake at five? Maybe he had trouble sleeping after last night, like I did.

I sat on a recliner on the balcony, rubbing at my forehead.

Me: Still doesn’t answer my question.

Cillian: My outburst was out of line.

Knowing he’d been pushed far enough—I’d never heard my husband apologize to anyone—I changed the subject.

Me: My Auntie Tilda, the one who chose my name, told me that every time I see a lone cloud in the sky, she is watching me. There’s only one cloud outside now.

After putting my phone on the table by the recliner, I stood and went about my morning. Brushed my teeth, curled my hair, and got dressed, knowing there was no chance my husband was going to grace me with an answer.

When I returned to the balcony table, after flicking the coffee machine on, I noticed my cell screen was lit with an incoming message.

Cillian: Are you on drugs? Sobriety was not a part of our contractual agreement only because I assumed it was a given.

Snorting out a laugh, I typed back.

Me: Look outside. Do you not see it?

Cillian: Your dead aunt on a cloud? No.

Me: She is not ON it. She IS it. Let me send you a pic.

I raised my phone to the window, snapped a picture of the perfectly fuzzy cloud, and sent it over to him.

Me: Well?

Cillian: Nice to meet you, Persephone’s aunt. You two look nothing alike.

Me: Who is being cute now?

Cillian: Me, apparently.

Me: Don’t worry, I know you’re incapable of anything good and moral. Having a sense of humor won’t tarnish your wickedness.

Cillian: Is that a hint?

Me: What do you mean?

Cillian: The Arctic drilling.

Did I hate the idea of him drilling holes inside the Arctic to see if he can find oil, ruining an already fragile part of the world? Of course I did. It made me sick to my stomach, to think the man I loved and directly profited from did that. But I also recognized talking about it with him now, when we were starting out, wouldn’t make him move an inch. If anything, he’d probably drill in a few more places just to spite me.

Me: It’s not a hint. I think my position on the matter is clear.

Cillian: Batteries over SUVs.

I grinned, remembering the sex toys innuendo he’d made at his office yesterday afternoon.

Me: Correct.

Cillian: Look at your garage, Flower Girl.

I made my way downstairs to the building garage.

Sure enough, there was a brand new red Tesla sitting on my apartment’s allotted spot.

He bought me a car.

An electric car.

The type of vehicle that was supposed to put him out of business eventually.

Not missing what it meant, I typed my husband a reply with shaky fingers.

Me: Thank you.

Cillian: Batteries are for pussies.

I managed to successfully avoid my wife for the rest of the week.

That did not stop her from sending me daily text messages about her dead aunt hiding in clouds every time the sky was clear.

The messages, like my prayers to have a sane wife, remained unanswered.

She had suggested we meet up a few times, despite the radio silence on my end.

The thought of seeing her again disgusted me, so I decided not to consider it until I cooled down.

But seven days in, and my traitorous body made no sign of settling down.

The memory of her writhing beneath me burned hotter at night.

Statistically speaking, limiting our encounters to once a week would still ensure a pregnancy within the next few months.

To be on the safe side, I’d created a chart with her potential ovulating dates and decided to alternate the days in which I saw her each week in order to cover all the bases. But I knew next time we met, I would have to do a better job at reeling in the monster inside me.

No part of me had meant to lose control the first time we had sex, but when I saw her naked tits bouncing to the rhythm of my thrusts and her pink, O-shaped mouth hanging open in desire, I’d lost the self-possession I’d clung to like a desperate Belieber meeting her tattooed, acne-ridden hero and came apart.

I blamed her for the mishap. She was the one who insisted I stop visiting my side pieces and deprived me of a chance to rid myself of my animalistic nature.

Luckily (and I used that term very loosely), I had no time to think about my bride. I had a shitstorm to prepare for in the form of Andrew Arrowsmith.

Upon filing the lawsuit, Arrowsmith had sent me a formal letter through his lawyers, accusing me more or less of single-handedly ruining planet Earth. He had made sure the letter would leak to the press, and all the positive news I’d garnered since marrying Persephone, aka Little Angel Baby Jesus, went down the drain.

Andrew didn’t stop at that. Blind items about a powerful, Boston-based CEO visiting European prostitutes began to pop up like mushrooms after the rain in the tabloids, and I had no doubt he was the one who fed the journalists these pieces.

He had me followed.

Did his homework. Uncovered my secrets. All of them.

Which was why I’d decided to gather Devon, Sam, and Hunter on my ranch for a weekend of brainstorming, horse riding, and planning the demise of my archnemesis.

Bonus points: going to the ranch would put some mileage between Persephone and me.

We were in my car, heading out of Boston, when Devon said aloud what Sam and I were thinking.

“I’m surprised Hunter agreed to spend an entire weekend away from his missus.” He was in the passenger seat next to me while Hunter and Sam sat in the back.

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.” Hunter slouched back, grinning.

“And shit,” Sam spat out.

“And yourself.” Devon smirked cockily.

Frost covered the narrow, winding road, the same shade as my wife’s eyes.

“Dev, can you check Kill’s temperature?” Hunter nudged the back of his seat. “He just missed a chance to slag me off, as your people call it. It’s unlike him.”