to gang families and businesses herself, I found myself opening up to her about the whole sordid story.
By the time I left, we'd come to one conclusion: I needed to work out if my father had signed a prenuptial agreement along with my marriage contract.
As badly as she wanted to get on board with my rather simplistic plan to divorce Archer and take half his assets in the split, she had her doubts if it would be possible. Considering my father had sold me, not just married me off, she’d quite wisely pointed out that there would be a safety net in place for this exact situation.
A clause that might see me forfeiting my entire inheritance—however much that really was—in the event of me filing for divorce.
In short? It was too risky to prematurely serve Archer with divorce papers like I wanted to.
But it wasn't a totally wasted meeting. Demi was convinced there was more going on with my inheritance and my mother's family line than anyone was letting on. She’d also suggested—like I'd already considered—that the hit was someone who'd financially benefit from my death.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, I guess—that wasn't Archer. He couldn't access my money until I turned twenty-one. So I had to be alive to turn twenty-one. That in and of itself shed some light into why he seemed so determined to keep me breathing.
It was stupid, I knew it was, but somehow the knowledge that he could be keeping me alive for a monetary payoff... it hurt. Way more than I was really willing to admit, even to myself.
"All good?" Roach asked as we made our way out of the lawyers’ offices and rode the elevator back down to ground level.
I gave him a tight smile. "Maybe."
Demi had offered to do some digging into my inheritance and my mother's forged records for me. She seemed genuine about wanting to help, and right now I needed all the players on my team that were possible.
We stepped out of the building, and Roach froze dead in his tracks.
"Ah shit," he muttered. "Fuck." He gave me a conflicted look, then his gaze darted over my shoulder. Somehow, I already knew what had him cursing and looking a whole lot like he was thinking about running.
Straightening my spine, I turned around and levelled my best bitch-glare at the raging ball of testosterone barrelling down the sidewalk toward us. Me. Toward me, because he possibly hadn't even seen Roach standing there beside me.
"Darling, what a coincidence running into you here," I greeted him, my voice saccharine and my smile pasted on. "Did you also have a meeting booked with a divorce lawyer? This could be a bit awkward."
Archer just blinked at me, like I was confusing him, then shook his head dismissively. "Thanks Roach, I'll take it from here." He didn't even look at the Reaper when he spoke, his eyes remaining locked with mine.
"Uh, come on man. Zane gave me a job..." Roach sounded pained, but Archer clearly gave zero fucks about the repercussions he'd catch from Zane.
"Madison Kate, walk or be carried. Your choice." Archer was so matter of fact, like he didn't much care either way. But he wasn't fooling me. The vein in his temple was throbbing, and his tattooed fingers were flexing at his sides like he wanted to form fists.
I called his bluff.
"Carry me then, sunshine. Because I'm not going anywhere willingly with you in this mood. Are you hitting the 'roids again, babe? You know that shrinks your dick even worse than usual."
I should have known better. By this stage, after putting up with Archer's bullshit for almost six months, I really should have known better.
He just shrugged, and the next thing I knew, my ass was in the air over his shoulder and my face had smacked into the back pocket of his jeans.
"Arch, dude. I can't just let you take her," Roach protested—weakly, I might add. Archer clearly thought Roach was no threat because he just let out a laugh.
"You gonna try and stop me, Roach? I'm not above shooting your knee out in broad daylight. Test me." His voice was cold and threatening, and to be honest, I didn't even remotely blame Roach for backing down.
Archer strode back down the sidewalk and dumped me unceremoniously into the passenger seat of his midnight-black Stingray. He must have had it repaired over the break because the last time I'd seen that car, there’d been a whole heap of damage to the left side from