The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(21)

“You need a hug.” I frowned. “And a shrink. Not in that order.”

“What I need is siring heirs. At least one male. A couple of others for appearance and backup.”

Backup.

Were we talking about children or phone chargers?

My head spun. I reached to the wall for support.

I always knew Cillian Fitzpatrick was messed up, but this was a level of crazy that could easily secure him a place in a mental institution.

“Why male? In case you haven’t noticed, this is the twenty-first century. There are women like Irene Rosenfeld, Mary Barra, Corie Barry…” I began listing female CEOs. He cut me off.

“Spare me the supermarket list. The truth of the matter is, some things haven’t changed. Women born into obscene privilege—aka my future daughters—rarely opt for hectic careers, which is what running Royal Pipelines demands.”

“That is the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shockingly, I agree with you on that point.” He began to button his coat, signaling his departure. “Nonetheless, I’m not the one making the rules. Traditionally, the firstborn’s son inherits most of the shares and the role of CEO in Royal Pipelines. That’s how my father got the gig. That’s how I got it.”

“What if the kid wants to be something else?”

He stared at me as though I just asked him if I should pierce my eyebrow using a semi-automatic weapon. Like I was truly beyond help.

“Who doesn’t want to be the head of one of the richest companies in the world?”

“Anyone who knows what a role like that entails,” I shot back. “No offense, but you’re not the happiest man I know, Kill.”

“My first son will continue my legacy,” he said matter-of-factly. “If you’re worried about his mental health, I suggest you send him to therapy from infancy.”

“Sounds like you’re going to be a wonderful father.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“They’ll have a soft mother. Least I can do is give them the hard facts of life.”

“You’re awful.”

“You’re stalling,” he quipped.

The nervous knot of hysteria forming in my throat grew. Not because I found the idea of marrying Cillian so terrible, but because I didn’t, and that made me deranged. What kind of woman jumped headfirst into marriage with the wickedest man in Boston while still married to the most unreliable one?

Me.

That was who.

I entertained this insane idea for many reasons, all of them wrong: No more money problems.

A sure divorce from Paxton.

Having Cillian’s company, and undivided attention, even if just for a few short years.

Who knew? Maybe Auntie Tilda was going to deliver after all. We could start off as an arrangement and end up as a real couple.

No. I couldn’t board his train to Crazy Town. The last stop was Heartbreak, and I’d had enough of that in my life. Paxton had already crushed me. But my infatuation with Pax was sweet and comfortable. Cillian always stirred in me something raw and wild that could enrapture me.

I needed to think about it clearly without him getting in my face with his drugging scent and square jaw and cold flawlessness.

I stepped sideways, toward the stairway. “Look, can I think about it?”

“Of course. You have plenty of time. It’s not like the mob is after you,” his rich-boy diction mocked me.

I knew exactly how bad my situation was. Still, if I was going to officially sign the rest of my life over to the man who crushed me, I needed to at least give myself a few days to process it.

“Give me a week.”

“Twenty-four hours,” he fired back.

“Four days. You’re talking about the rest of my life here.”

“You’re not going to have a life if you don’t accept. Forty-eight hours. That’s my final offer, and it’s a generous one. You know where to find me.”

He turned around, making his way to the door.

“Wait,” I yelped.

He paused, not turning around.

A flashback of myself watching him leave and asking him to stay at Sailor and Hunter’s wedding slammed into me. I knew, with certainty that scorched my soul, that it was going to be our norm if I accepted his offer.

I would always seek him out, and he would always retreat to the shadows. A dusky, heady smoke of a man I could feel and see but never catch.

“Give me your home address. I don’t want to go to your office again. It makes me feel like we’re conducting business.”

“We are conducting business.”

“Your PA is horrible. She almost stabbed me that day I visited you.”

“Almost is the operative word here.” Producing a business card, he flipped it over and scribbled down his address. “I wouldn’t have covered her legal fees, and she knows it.”

He handed the card to me.

“Forty-eight hours,” he reminded me. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you declined my offer or were offed prematurely, and move on to the next candidate on my list.”

“There’s a list.” My jaw dropped.

Of course there was a list. I was just one of many women who ticked all the boxes for the mighty Cillian Fitzpatrick.

I wondered what said boxes included.