Page 6 of The Billionaire and His Forever

Then he hangs up. I stare at the phone, cheeks on fire as if I just got slapped. Fuck.

At my wit’s end, and with nowhere else to turn, I call my dad.

“I don’t know what to do,” I sob as soon as he answers the phone. “I can’t help him, and no one will tell me what’s happening, and I’m sitting here trying take care of his poor kid and…”

“Calm yourself down, Abbie. It hasn’t even been a whole day,” he interrupts impatiently. “I play golf with his lawyer from time to time, all right? So just give me a little time to work on this. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of everything.”

Chapter Three

Graham

My father’swords ring in my ears:Cock up, my boy. Never have those words felt more appropriate than this moment, as I sit here fuming and fretting in a frigid interrogation room with handcuffs on, staring down a pair of hard-eyed detectives who think I tried to murder my ex-wife. The whole thing is so ridiculous it’s almost goddamn laughable.

Natasha’s overdose was a result of her own actions, and the round-the-clock care she received at the hospital afterward was thanks to an emergency call thatImade in order to save her life, but here I am, having to fight for my innocence. It’s preposterous. It’s unfathomable.

Yet somehow, it’s my reality.

We’ve been in here for what feels like hours, though without a clock on hand I have no idea how much time has really passed. I sit with my eyes trained on the wall behind the cops, unwilling to talk because I know better. I may have never been in this situation before, but I’ve seen enough films and TV shows to know that these detectives aren’t here to play nice. If life were simpler, my alibi would suffice, but I cannot bring Abbie into this.

Our relationship has upended her life enough already. She doesn’t need any more negative attention. She’s completely innocent, and throwing her in with the piranhas all over again is absolutely out of the question. I knew coming to New York City was a bad idea, I just didn’t know it would turn out this bad. I never should have caved in to Natasha’s demands.

How the hell can anyone think I’m culpable when sheoverdosed? This shitshow is all Natasha’s fault, and she’s still found a way to put me square in the middle of it. So I cock up, putting on my best armor, and refuse the tepid, burnt-smelling coffee they try to offer me.

“This would go a lot easier for you if you’d just cooperate.” This from the self-professed good cop.

They are quite the pair of stereotypes, the two of them. Good cop is played by Detective Krohl, older, grandfatherly, with pouches under his eyes and an air of world-weary exhaustion about him. He gives the impression that he just wants to help. That he’d love nothing more than to get this silly business over with so he can go home and put his slippers on and have a nice cup of tea with his wife, who probably looks like Mrs. Claus in a velour track suit. But all he’s done this whole time is lean on me to confess, albeit gently, and by now I’ve lost all patience.

Because I have nothing to confess.

On his left sits Detective Hernandez, aka bad cop, who looks to be in her late thirties. She’s lean and mean, with her curly hair scraped back into a tight bun, not a single strand out of place. The second she walked in, the sharp arch of her brows told me she’s the take-no-prisoners type. She’s done nothing but bark accusations at me, try to make me sweat, try to break me so I’ll tell her something other than the truth—which she seems to have zero interest in because it doesn’t fit the murderous, adulterous ex-husband narrative that she clearly already believes.

“I’d like to call my attorney, Elise Bowen,” I tell them.

“Of course. We’ll get there,” Detective Krohl says.

“The fuck we will, scumbag,” Detective Hernandez snarls, lunging toward me.

Krohl’s hand shoots out to turn off the digital voice recorder on the table and then tug Hernandez back into her chair. “Calm down, Ananda,” he soothes.

She breathes hard, glaring at me, as if she was this close to slugging me in the jaw if not for the intervention of her partner. This is how it’s been. Round and round we go. Although, what more can I expect when they suspect me of attempted murder?

“You do know that you’re legally required to stop interrogating me once I’ve asked for my attorney,” I say.

“An innocent man wouldn’t need a lawyer to tell his side of the story,” Hernandez shoots back.

“Don’t make this harder on yourself, Graham,” Krohl says, his voice kind and patient, as if we’re all just friends catching up. Then he turns the recorder back on. “Just give us your version of what happened that night.”

“I already did. And you’ve already recorded it. I have nothing else to say,” I tell him, nodding at the recorder. “My ex-wife is an addict, I am sorry to say, and she did this to herself. An unfortunate and frankly preventable accident.”

Krohl sighs like he’s disappointed in me and takes a sip of rancid coffee before reclining in his creaky chair and glancing down at his notes. “The thing is, we have multiple eyewitness accounts of the fight you had with your wife at Piatto. It doesn’t look good.”

“Ex-wife,” I correct, though I’m sure it does nothing to help my case.

Hernandez smiles cruelly. “Youthreatenedtokill your wifein front of an entire restaurant full of people, including your eight-year-old daughter. Tell us about the fight, Ratliff. What did Natasha do that lead to that statement? She cheat on you again? Or was it you doing the cheating this time, and she threatened to blackmail you with it?”

“Ex-wife,” I monotone, my gaze drilling into the gray cinderblock wall.

But underneath the steely exterior, I’m a black hole of anger and regret. Dammit, I shouldn’t have lost control like that in public. Usually I pride myself on my cool head, but Natasha always brings out the worst in me. She knows exactly how to push all my buttons—loves doing it, in fact. She makes me say terrible things I don’t mean, and now it’s come to bite me in the ass.

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