“Why were you snooping on my computer?”

I choke on a laugh as it attempts to break free. “Why were you sticking your bent dick in Kim? And why is there a video of it?”

He gnashes his teeth some more. “I’m sorry. We can fix this.” He tugs at his tie like it’s strangling him. If only …

If disbelief is an anesthetic, then shock is an adhesive that temporarily holds everything together. I can’t find a single tear. I can’t even find appropriate words to say or muster the energy to scream at him. It’s as if I’m on the outside looking in objectively.

“I’ll bite. How would we fix this? I mean…” I shake my head and shrug “…had you just asked, I would have let you do that to me.”

“Jesus, Avery …”

“No. Don’t say that. I know a lot about Jesus and you should too, Saint Anthony. I’m certain he wants nothing to do with this conversation.”

I lean back in the chair, cradling my hand. Anthony bends forward, resting his fists on the opposite side of the desk. “My parents like you. I like you. We could be such a great team.”

“A team?”

“You like the lifestyle, Avery. Don’t pretend you don’t. You’ll get everything you could ever possibly want—kids, mansions, cars, yachts, jets, a closet bigger than your entire apartment filled with the most expensive clothes …”

“And what do you get?”

“My angel.” A satisfied grin slides across his face.

“Which one?” I cock my head to the side.

His lips twist, eyes narrowed. “All of them.”

Them. Them! THEM!?!

My jaw plummets to my lap.

“But you will always be my favorite—the chosen one. My wife. Mother of my children. Queen of my empire.”

This is the part where I should break something like his computer or his toddler-sculpted nose.

I don’t.

As livid as I am with this stranger before me, this man who fooled me for two years, I’m more upset with myself because for a few brief, totally insane seconds I think about his offer. When did I surrender my pride, my sense of self-worth? Who broke me to the point that I don’t feel worthy of the one thing he’s not offering me?

If I walk out that door, who will I be? What if something better never comes along? I’m knocking on thirty’s door while mastering the art of failed relationships. If in ten years I have nothing more than a two-bedroom apartment, arthritic hands, and a measly disability check, will I regret saying no to a family and everything money can buy?

“I just want the spa. We go our separate ways, but you sign over the spa to me.”