She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 95

(Natasha)

I make an appointment.

His assistant tries to offer me a slot next Thursday and I tell her I'll be there at eleven, which is when Chase has a gap in his schedule.

I spent years working with him. I know he leaves himself breathing room before lunch meetings start.

Time to gather his thoughts and make sure he’s at the top of his game.

She makes a valiant effort to argue before putting me in the system.

I suspect Chase knows the moment she does, but he doesn’t call to ask what this is about.

I dress carefully.

Not to impress. To armor.

Dark trousers, a jacket that means business, heels I can walk fast in. My hair up.

I put on the sapphire earrings he gave me at Christmas, which is either a statement or a provocation and I've decided I don't care which.

I drove past the apartment twice this morning before deciding to come to his office.

The office is neutral ground and the apartment is not, and I need neutral ground for this conversation.

The assistant waves me through at five past eleven.

Keeping me waiting those five minutes just to prove something.

That’s all her. Chase doesn’t play those kinds of games.

His ego is big enough that he trusts his general demeanor to be enough to intimidate most people.

And it is. I’m just determined enough not to care.

And I did bully his assistant on the phone, so I won’t begrudge her a little payback.

Chase is standing when I walk in, which means he was watching the door.

His expression is a carefully composed mask of blandness, which tells me he knows exactly what this is about.

"Natasha," he says pleasantly.

"Sit down," I tell him. "This will take a few minutes."

A beat passes, then he sits.

I don't.

"I'm not going back to the estate under your conditions," I say.

"I want that stated clearly at the beginning so we don't waste time."

He says nothing.

"Two supervised visits a week is not a custody arrangement, it's a punishment. And we both know it. Lily needs her mother and I need access to my daughter that isn't rationed based on your mood or whether I've been sufficiently compliant."

I keep my voice even.

"I'm also not going to keep pretending that the arrangement we've had for the past several weeks is sustainable. It isn't. The apartment..."

I pause, because the apartment is the one thing I haven't entirely organized into clinical language yet.

It’s a simmering microcosm of emotions and wants that I crave and fight in equal measure.

"The apartment is not a solution. It's a situation. And I'm not willing to keep existing in situations indefinitely."

Still nothing from him.

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