"What does this have to do with me?"
My eyes moved over the hard lines of Grayson's expression. "One night we were at his office after hours. I was finishing up a few projects as I waited for him. Judge Wentworth, the judge in your case," I glanced at him, but his expression didn't change, "came in to consult with my father on a few cases, one of which was yours."
"Go on," he said, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw.
I expelled a long breath. "I was delivering a file and I only overheard enough . . . enough to understand. It was an election year, see, and my father advised him to throw the book at you—give you the ultimate sentence to send a message that he wasn't only tough on crimes committed by the poor and minorities, but that he also delivered harsh sentences to rich white criminals, as well. It's all a game—a game of perceptions and manipulating "facts". The players don't matter, the individual lives don't matter—anything can be twisted if you come at it from the right angle. You were a pawn. It's the reason you didn't get community service or a minimum sentence like your lawyer believed you would. Because of my father you went away for five years. And I . . . I never forgot your name. That day at the bank, I heard it and I remembered."
I finally braved a glance at Grayson's face, looking for understanding, but although his skin had paled, his expression held nothing except cold impassivity. "And then you decided to use me, too. It was all one big set up."
I furrowed my brow. "What? No, that's not . . . running into you at that bank was like fate and I—"
"You expect me to believe that now? Using me is exactly what you did." He laughed then, an ugly sound full of disdain. "What a perfect way to get back at your own father. Talk about the perfect vengeance. Marry the man he helped put in prison—no wonder he was so livid. Jesus, you're just like him, scheming, using people." I was suffocating, the room growing dark at the edges around me, as if I had tunnel vision.
Scheme? Use people? No, I didn't do that . . . did I? I admitted I did often come up with plans and ideas, but they weren't used to hurt people . . . Suddenly I was sick and confused. I put my hand on the edge of his desk, steadying myself. Did I? Is that what I did? Had I done that to Grayson?
I shook my head in denial. "I didn't use you, Grayson, I wanted to try to make it right. I thought—"
"Make it right?" he yelled, startling me. "How have you made anything right?" He laughed again, running his hand through his hair and grabbing a handful before bringing his hand down again. "Was that the plan all along? Use me to get the money and then take it back somehow? Holy fucking God. You're all liars. And look where you've left me—penniless, shackled to a schemer, and now having to contend with your father again, the man who once ruined my fucking life!" His face had gone from pale to flushed, and his voice shook as he yelled.
"Grayson," I said, holding out my hand and moving closer, "of course I didn't plan it. You're seeing this all wrong. After what your father did, I can understand, but you're looking at this through the eyes of someone who's just been hurt very badly. Please, if we come together—you and I—we can think of something that will—"
He stepped back away from me, the look on his face full of disgust. I dropped my hand. "Come up with something? Still conniving, Kira? Just stop, I can't take anymore. It's making me sick. You make me sick. I'm just sick of it all—the manipulations, the lies, the half-truths."
I shook my head. "You're making this out to be something it's not. Please, just take some time to think about it. I'm not like my father. I'm not like your father." My voice ended on a whisper and I could hear the doubt in my own voice.
"This has nothing to do with my father," he spit out. "This has to do with you and the fact that I'll never trust you again."
I shook my head, denying what was happening, denying the cold distance in his expression. "I know it must seem like you can't believe in anything anymore. But you can believe in me."
"I thought I could."
A single tear slid down my cheek. "Grayson, I'm your wife. What we have together—"
"I can get down at the corner bar any day of the week," he said icily.
I put my arms around myself again, trying desperately not to believe his vile words. "I know you don't mean that. I didn't mean to hurt you. I love you," I croaked brokenly.
He leaned his head back and laughed, causing me to wince with deep hurt. "Love? Love? You know what love has gotten me in my life?" He picked up a paperweight off his desk and threw it hard at the window. The glass shattered as it hit, flying straight through and landing somewhere on the ground outside. I let out a little yelp. He turned to me, his hands fisted at his sides. "You don't love me. I was bought and paid for, nothing more. I acted the husband, didn't I? And now our business arrangement is over. Get out," he said. "Get out of my house."