“You’ve never called my father rich before.”
“I didn’t mean rich rich.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m tired. I’m worried. My mom is falling apart. Everyone thinks you had some kind of breakdown.”
“Everyone?”
“My family.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t do that,” he snapped, and there, for the first time, the softness slipped. “Don’t use that tone like you’re above us.”
Above us.
I studied the man in front of me, the man I had promised to love in sickness and health, in joy and sorrow. His fear was real. I could see it now. But it was not fear of losing me.
It was fear of losing control of the story.
“I’m taking my things,” I said. “Rebecca Hale will contact you.”
“Who?”
“My attorney.”
The color shifted in his face.
“Attorney?” His voice dropped. “Ella, married couples don’t get attorneys after one fight.”
