the airport to leave Vegas and never come back.
Instead, she gives a throaty laugh. “I took a room here at the Blackwood, of course.”
I don’t even respond, merely disconnect the call. Immediately, I pick up the receiver from the phone on my desk and dial down to the hotel receptionist. A man answers with a cordial, “Yes, Mr. Blackwood… what can I do for you this afternoon?”
“Give me the room number for Madison Blackwood,” I order.
I hear some typing on a keyboard before he replies, “1104.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up. Before heading out of my office, I nab a folder from one of my credenza drawers. I move through the executive suite to the elevators, then up to the eleventh floor. I’m bristling with anger by the time I knock on her door.
When the door opens—Madison stands there looking icily beautiful and smug. I take complete stock of my feelings. Nothing but disgust for her, and it has nothing to do with our marriage falling apart. Rather, it has everything to do with the fact she has done nothing but play games with me for the past two years while I tried to push her to finalize our divorce.
But, to Madison, this is all a delightful game. She considers my efforts to get her to sign her name on the documents as my way of chasing after her. It soothes her bruised ego to have even that bit of attention from me.
There is no doubt most men with a heartbeat would consider her to be supermodel gorgeous. But if they ever spent five minutes in her presence, they would know nothing on her insides matches her outsides.
She beams. “Darling… it’s so good to see you.”
She takes a step toward me, and I bet she even thinks I’m going to let her kiss me on the cheek. Instead, I thrust the folder that holds a copy of our divorce agreement at her, growling, “Sign the fucking documents, Madison.”
She drops her gaze to the folder, then looks back up to me with a sly smile. Turning around, she walks into the suite, calling over her shoulder, “Come in and have a drink. We’ll talk about it.”
I storm in after her. “I don’t want a fucking drink. I want you to sign the divorce papers I’ve been trying to get you to sign for almost two years now.”
Truth be told, I haven’t tried very hard. Not personally, anyway, because I can’t stand to even talk to the woman. I put this in my attorney’s hands, and they make periodic attempts to get her to comply.
We had hashed out all the details long ago, and there hadn’t been much argument there. Before I married Madison, it was with the understanding she signed a very tight and ironclad pre-nup agreement. While she stands to get a lot of money from our divorce, it is a mere fraction of what I’m worth. Why she continues to refuse to take the deal is beyond me, but my personal thought is she enjoys wearing the Blackwood name. It gets her certain privileges, and she’s not ready to give it up yet.
I watch as Madison moves to the wet bar, then pulls the stopper out of a crystal decanter of bourbon. Of course, she was put in one of the top luxury suites at the resort, a definite perk of her still wearing the Blackwood name. She turns and holds the glass out to me, but I shake my head.
Shrugging her indifference, she lifts the glass to her lips and takes a tiny sip. After swallowing, she says, “I decided I don’t want a divorce. I would like to try to give the marriage another try.”
Absolutely unfuckingbelievable. Not hiding the acidic tone in my voice, I say, “Tired of jet-setting all over Europe? Thought you might give domesticity a try again? Come on, Madison. You hated marriage to me as much as I did to you. What’s your real game?”
As if I didn’t think matters could get any worse, movement from my right catches my eye. I turn to find my father sitting near the window in one of the club chairs. He stands, a bourbon already in his hand, and casually presses his other down into his pocket. I am beyond stunned to see him, and I cannot think of a word to say.
My father’s eyes bore into mine. “You need to give this another shot with Madison. It’s time you provide the next Blackwood heir.”
I can do nothing