Page 59 of Wait for Him

Manslaughter.

I let myself sit in the idea for a second.

Rose is a very good lawyer. She'd find an angle, work it down to something with a small number on the end, and I'd be out in a couple of years with a clean slate and a full night's sleep.

Unfortunately, the windows in here are thick. Double-glazed, some executive-grade nonsense Bennet insisted on. I'd have to crack one first with something heavy before tossing Elyse through it, and that's the kind of premeditation that ruins an otherwise defensible case.

Pity. It's the planning that gets you every time.

“Are you even listening to me, Marcus?”

She snaps her fingers. Her actual fingers. In the actual fucking air.

I slowly look up.

“Do that again, Elyse. Go ahead. Snap them.”

Her hand drops instead. Smart girl.

“Daddy said I could get an increase on my allowance. I'm going out tonight, and I need at least ten thousand.”

I laugh out loud. That is the whole of our marriage in a sentence.

Daddy said.

The man owns the leash on both of us and occasionally lets his daughter hold the slack.

“What?”

“The last time you had five thousand dollars to blow in one night, you nearly got arrested and came a lot closer to overdosing than you seem to remember. I'm the one who got you out of that mess before it made the papers, so no. What in God's name do you need ten grand for tonight?”

Her face twists. “It's my money, Marcus.”

“Then perhaps you should've demonstrated at some point that you can be trusted with it.”

“You're just the conservator. Daddy said I could have it.”

Just the conservator.

Like it's a title I applied for.

Frank handed me control of Elyse's finances right along with the marriage because chaining me to his daughter wasn't enough. I also needed to be responsible for making sure she didn't blow through enough money and cocaine to end up dead somewhere before the five years were over.

And the best part?

She fucking hates me for it.

As though this is how I dreamed of spending my thirties.

Her voice starts climbing, and I glance toward the open office door. The last thing I need on the worst PR week we've had in years is Elyse broadcasting the state of our marriage three floors away from the boardroom.

“Lower your voice.”

“Don't tell me what to—”

“Cut the shit, Elyse.”

My head falls back against my chair for a second while I take a beat. I just don't have another fight in me today. Maybe she’ll get enough blow tonight to finish the fucking job.