Greek Tycoon, Wayward Wife(50)

But he swore he’d do her no more, no matter how persistent the urge to take the stairs two at a time and haul her back into his arms. What was that phrase? If you loved someone, you should set them free? He raked a hand through his hair, the thought of letting her go excruciating. But, much as he believed in challenging accepted wisdom, he knew he should have heeded that advice a long time ago.

Rion reluctantly walked the short distance to his study and removed the sheaf of papers from the bottom drawer of his desk—the papers he’d placed there after she’d tossed them down the stairs at him, the ones she’d first pulled from her bag that day at his office in Athens. He’d been so determined not to sign them that he’d never read the small print. He didn’t read it now. If it asked for anything he’d gladly give it to her, just so he never had to see that look of desolation on her face again. But he knew it didn’t ask—knew nothing but walking out of his front door with the signed papers in her hand could ease her expression of torment.

And after that he’d never see her face again, he thought dismally, glancing round his office at the photos of the latest progress on the hospital, at the plans for the new affordable houses. The things which ought to buoy him up but just left him feeling numb. Because, yes, he’d done everything that he’d sworn he would the day Jason died: made a success of himself, returned to Metameikos and fought for the position which would allow him to make sure nothing like that ever happened again. Only now did he realise that it had been at the expense of his own happiness, that life was only truly worth anything if you had love. Someone to share it with.

But he knew that he had realised it too late. Even if Libby had thought that she wanted to share her life with him once, he could never make her happy now. There was only one thing that could.

Rion looked back down at the papers before him and opened the glass cabinet next to his desk. He poured himself a measure of Scotch, knocked it back, then reached for his pen.



As Libby kneeled on the floor, pressing the mass of unfolded clothes into her suitcase, she could taste the salty drops of her tears. They weren’t the hysterical tears of sudden grief, they were the resigned, silent kind, mourning a death that had been inevitable for months—in her case years—but that didn’t make them any less painful.

Because all that time, even when she’d told herself not to, she’d kept hoping it wasn’t terminal, that underneath it all he had wanted her to be his wife, for the same reason that she’d wanted him to be her husband: love. But now there was no hope left, and she didn’t know how to begin to live without it. Even locked in the cupboard under the stairs at Ashworth Manor, she’d had that much. Now all she had was a void in her heart where hope used to be.

‘You’d better not go without this.’

She hadn’t heard him ascend the stairs or enter the room behind her, but then her mind was such a mess it was a miracle that any of her senses were working at all. Quickly she brushed the tears from her cheeks. But before she could even move on to attempting the neurological function required to process what he’d said, he slid something onto the bed in front of her.

The divorce petition.

The signed divorce petition.

Her eyes dropped from the official court logo down to the ‘O. Delikaris’ scrawled without hesitation on the line. It was the only thing she’d come here originally to get—the thing she’d once imagined would bring with it a sense of closure. She’d never been more wrong about anything in her life. It felt as if she’d been torn open.

‘You were right in the first place,’ Rion said quietly, unnerved by the way she didn’t even move her head, needing to fill the silence because he was afraid that if he didn’t the temptation to press his lips to the back of her neck might overwhelm him. ‘This is the right thing to do.’

‘Thank you,’ she choked. It felt as if she were trying to swallow a loaf of bread without chewing.

‘I can fly you back to Athens,’ he said stiltedly, ‘or drive you to the airport if you’d rather?’

The thought of sitting beside him in the plane or next to him in the Bugatti was unbearable. She shook her head and found the courage to turn around, needing him to know she was grateful for the offer.

‘If you could just call me a cab, I’ll make the arrangements from there.’

Of course, Rion thought helplessly. Anything else would encroach on her independence. He nodded and turned on his heel. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s here.’

The taxi arrived ten minutes later. She’d been watching out of the upstairs window for it to arrive, and was already halfway down the stairs with her suitcase when he called her. She knew it was rude not to have gone and waited with him once she’d finished packing, but she couldn’t have trusted herself not to break down, nor have borne him awkwardly trying to comfort her if she had.