You Are My Reason - Willow Winters Page 0,47

my voice deathly low.

“The one downtown on Pacific Street. The one that was remodeled this past year.”

My world spins on its axis and I grip the arms of the chair. “Mr. Walker? I don’t own an apartment on Pacific.” I lick my dry lips, my body coiled, my muscles feeling tense and tight.

There’s a pause, filled with more ticks of the clock. “Well, your husband did and that was left to you. As was everything else in his will. So you do own an apartment on Pacific.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this sooner?” I ask, focusing my attention on something other than the fact that my husband bought and remodeled an apartment without me knowing. Betrayal consumes me but oddly, I feel numb to it. As if I’d known all along. As if I’d turned a blind eye. It’s not naivety or trustworthiness. It’s me being stupid. All the late nights at the office, all the weekend trips … My skin pricks and a numbing tingle goes through me. He told me it was just once when I found him in bed with another woman. I try to breathe in easier, but my throat is closing.

Disbelief is outrageous. He didn’t. He wasn’t cheating on me. There’s no way.

“You were given the paperwork, Julia. You signed everything after the funeral.”

I look up at Allen, feeling betrayed by him just as much as my husband. I want to question him, scream at him. But at the same time, I don’t care. I had this coming to me.

I didn’t know about this debt. I didn’t know about the apartment. I didn’t know about a damn thing because I trusted them.

“I was mourning,” I say and I can barely get out the words. They’re cold and stagnant. Just a lame excuse for my ignorance.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Anderson.” He starts to say something else but I rise from my chair, a bitter taste in my mouth as I bite out, “Don’t call me that.”

He cocks a brow at me as I start to leave. “You need to sign these, Julia,” he says matter-of-factly, speaking to me like my father does. Ignoring my emotions and simply telling me what I need to do.

My shoulders shudder as I open the door with my back to him and grip the cold brass knob for dear life.

“Email them to me,” I tell him. “Email everything to me.”

“I suggest you read them quickly,” he says to my back as I walk through the door.

I nod my head but I don’t verbally respond; I don’t trust myself to speak. I don’t look back at him and I don’t even breathe until I’m in the elevator. I can’t relax though, even in the empty, closed-off space. I want to sag against the wall, gripping the steel handles. I want to hit the emergency button and give in to the pathetic emotions of sadness and betrayal.

More than any of that, I want to see this apartment and I want to see how the hell my money was spent. I need to get myself together and figure out how deep of a hole I’m in and more importantly, how to get out.

Mason

Knock. Knock. Knock. My knuckles rap against Jules’s door quickly. A second passes and I take a look around, shoving my hands into my suit pockets. The Upper East Side screams old money and is far more traditional compared to downtown where I live.

My father’s home is only a few blocks from here.

Jules’s street is different from where I grew up, though. The cream stone and intricate carvings have history to them. Real history. I glance back at the small iron picket fence and gate in front of her house. The city sidewalk is just beyond it, littered with people walking by.

I rock on my heels and knock again, wondering what they think of this house.

It looks like wealth and with the well-maintained garden, it only adds to the beauty of the old house.

I’ve been inside Julia’s home a handful of times now, and it’s odd that I feel nervous about being here now. It’s because I’m coming through the front door in daylight. I smirk at the thought, but it’s true. My forehead pinches as I knock again, using the large iron door knocker this time.

The door swings open and there’s my Jules, but she doesn’t stay there long. She leaves the door hanging open and disappears inside, claiming that she has to get something, but I didn’t hear what.

“Jules?” I call