“We’re not staying here. Come on.” Sterling grabs his wallet and cell phone and heads to the door.

“Where to?”

“We’re going out. To where I should have taken you in the first place.”

Soon we’re at our favorite gentleman’s club, seated along the bar with a view of the stage, two pints of beer in front of us.

“Now this is somewhere to drown your sorrows,” Sterling remarks coolly.

My gaze drifts over to the center stage, where a petite blonde makes the stripper pole her bitch. But I think my cock must be broken, because despite the show she’s putting on, there’s not even the slightest bit of interest. Nada. Nothing. I look down at my lap. Urging my cock to do something. Waiting to see if it moves, if it twitches, anything to make me see that it’s not broken. She couldn’t have broken my cock when she broke my heart, could she?

Sterling leans forward on his elbows to give me a pointed look. “You want to know my grand unified theory of life?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to give it to me anyway, so sure.” I flash him a tight, fake grin and take another sip of my beer.

“Why get yourself all spun up over one woman, one difficult woman, when there are so many flavors to sample?”

He turns, gazing over at the action on the stage. All shapes and sizes of naked women shake their goods for us to enjoy. This is the biggest gentleman’s club in the city, and the choices are endless. From lean runner types with pert breasts and firm butts without dimples, to curvy goddesses whose huge breasts sway when they walk. From redheads that you instinctively know are trouble, to platinum blondes who are probably wild in bed, to demure brunettes who are every man’s perfect girl-next-door fantasy. But none of them appeal to me. Like, at all.

“Not interested,” I choke out, my throat feeling tight. What the hell has happened to me? I was Noah fucking Tate—master of my own domain, professional charmer and booty-call provocateur.

“Come fucking on,” Sterling says on a groan. “Not a one?”

I shake my head. “Nope.” None of these women hold a candle to the classy, sophisticated woman who used to warm my bed at night and keeps me on my toes all day. She makes me work for every inch of ground I gain with her. The feeling is addicting. Any of these woman would happily go home with me if I asked. Where’s the fun in that?

Sterling makes a low, tortured growl of frustration. “You’re impossible.”

I cut my gaze over to his. “Right, because your life is so perfect and full. If it was, you wouldn’t be at a place like this.”

I know I’m on to something. Sterling doesn’t open up much, but from what he has shared, I know his job makes him miserable much of the time, and living here while his entire family is still back in Great Britain is hard.

But he holds up his hands, taking no offense. “I was only trying to help. Chill.”

There is no helping me. There’s only an unmet need raging through my body and soul. I need to get Olivia back. I need to be inside her. To claim her. To make her see that she is my wife. Till death do us part.

I take another sip of my beer, knowing I’ll get my chance tonight.

Chapter Five

Olivia

The charity gala is beautiful. The finest, most mouthwatering cuisine is laid out on long tables along one wall of the opulent banquet hall. A tailcoated band plays lively smooth jazz on the stage set up at the other end.

Throughout the rest of the huge room, hundreds of upper-crust guests mingle and laugh and dance. White-shirted waiters slip fluidly through the crowd with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes. The high bay windows stand open, letting a crisp breeze ruffle my chiffon evening gown and play over my bared shoulders and back.

And I can’t enjoy any of it, because the heir clause is still hanging over my head, casting a dark shadow over everything.

Even just a week ago, I would have been proud to stroll in here on Noah’s arm. And unfortunately he does look devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo. But after what he did, I don’t want him near me. I don’t want to pretend to be the lovey-dovey young couple, all picture-perfect smiles. Because I can’t simply erase what I saw from my brain.

That one tiny moment in the bathroom threw our whole relationship into question. It’s almost like we’re back to square one. Before I got to know him, before I saw him as anything more than an annoying, lazy playboy. Before I (almost) fell in love. I have to decide all over again whether I can trust him.

And even if I do trust him . . . what then? Let him put a baby in me? Sacrifice my body, my future, in exchange for a company that might end up drowning no matter what we do? I won’t be forced into having a child. If and when I have a baby, it will be because I’m ready to parent. And I’m a long way from believing that the person beside me in those fantasies is Noah.

My grim thoughts derail when Noah rests his arm around my waist, his hand on my opposite hip. I stiffen at his touch. The line between his brows deepens; he definitely noticed my flinch.

“Christ, Snowflake, try to loosen up,” he mutters under his breath.

“I’m still angry with you,” I say out of the corner of my mouth, still smiling brightly. The strain of keeping up our happy facade is already taking its toll on my nerves.

Noah’s expression darkens despite his trying to repress his frown. “Be angry all you want, just don’t act like it. We have to make this look good. The last thing the company needs is the media starting rumors that our relationship is on the rocks.”