His Sugar Baby(78)
She narrowed china-blue eyes. Her pretty mouth thinned. “You’re bluffing! You know that I’ll fight to keep the house. I’ll claim abandonment. I will take you for everything you’ve got!”
They both knew that she had uttered the ultimate threat. Possession of the house had been the only thing that had ever really stopped Michael from putting an end to things before. He was the one who had envisioned the house, commissioned and worked with the architectural firm on every detail to bring a cherished dream to reality. When things had unraveled between him and Morgan, he had not wanted to risk losing what the house represented. He now knew, after all of this time, that it had been a hollow dream, because it had been built on the rotting foundation of their marriage. The house had also been the bludgeon that she had wielded to retain his name and a portion of his income. None of it was important anymore. He merely shrugged. “So what?”
“So what? Have you lost your mind?” Her voice rose stridently. She stared at him in shocked disbelief.
Michael ignored her question. It was quite possibly true. He was overturning his life for a woman who might refuse to ever see him again. But that was something that he would never discuss with this woman. “Are you still with Peter?”
Morgan threw back her head as though struck. Then defiance hardened her expression. “Of course I am.”
Michael leaned his buttocks against the hard length of the credenza. He had acquired the wife and the perfect house. He had reasoned he would one day have the family, too. He regarded her with detached curiosity. “If we had had a child, Morgan, do you think it would have made any difference? For us?”
She snorted again. “You know that we agreed we didn’t want any kids.”
“It was you who actually made that decision,” he reminded her in a steely voice.
Her slim nostrils flared. “You’ll never forgive me for that, will you?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to try.” Michael answered as honestly as he was able. The painful history between them had tainted his life. He had carried the poison around for too long. If he couldn’t come to terms with what Morgan had done, if he couldn’t forgive her for her betrayal, how could he ever expect Catherine to forgive him?
She advanced on him, a speculative gleam in her eyes. “Michael, what’s going on? We’ve had our differences, but…”
He raised a brow. The corner of his mouth lifted as he deliberately called up his cold-bastard’s smile. “Differences, Morgan?” he asked softly.
She had the grace to flush but waved a graceful hand in annoyed dismissal. “All right, so we haven’t exactly had the happiest relationship. We barely tolerated each other. It’s been that way for a long time. It suits me—and you!—so don’t tell me anything different! You’ve probably had someone on the side for years, but I’ve never cared. Just like you never cared that I—” She stopped abruptly, biting her lip.
“I did care, once. A great deal,” Michael said in a neutral voice. He felt a twinge of regret for what could have been then it was gone, taking along with it much of the ancient bitterness and anger. “But you’re right about this much. I got out of the habit a long time ago.” That truth stung. Her eyes flashed. He coolly watched her obvious struggle to retain control of her temper.
When she finally trusted herself to speak, her voice was icy. “Exactly, Michael! So what has changed? Why now? Why have you filed for divorce?” Sarcasm dripped in her voice. “What happened, did someone die?”
Michael flinched. He instantly smoothed his expression but not quickly enough.
Morgan’s own expression subtly altered. “Michael…” She started to reach out, to touch his arm.
Michael stiffened, staring her down. “Don’t, Morgan.”
Her hand dropped to her side. She hadn’t the right, and she at least had the sense to recognize it. In a quieter voice, she said, “I’m sorry, Michael.”
“No one has died.” This was not going as he had thought it would. In frustration, Michael swept his hand over his face. His fingers grazed the dark stubble on his jaws and chin. It was not the only outward sign of neglect. He hadn’t slept well for some time, but that wasn’t what had worn him down. His whole world and everything that he had believed about himself had been tilted on its axis. He was aware of the searching look that Morgan gave him. He knew what she would see. He had not bothered to change his flight-rumpled clothing before sitting down with his lawyer or coming to see his estranged wife. He was always fastidious about his appearance, even in casual dress. By his standards, he was unkempt, and Morgan would know that.
She asked slowly, “Do you love this person?”
“Leave it, Morgan.” Michael felt a stark shaft of pain under his ribs. How very much he wished that he had been allowed to be even a small part of Chloe Somerset’s life. How much he regretted that Catherine had not trusted in him enough to let him share it.
Morgan understood him well enough to realize that he was under considerable strain. “Was there an accident?”
He shook his head. “It was a long illness—three years. Leukemia. I didn’t know anything about it. She never told me.” He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t stand still, fielding any more of Morgan’s intrusive questions. He swung around, stalking to the mantel over the fireplace. He grasped the shoulder-height stone before turning a shuttered expression to her. “I am not willing to discuss this.”