"Yes. I do live somewhere." she said.
Dorian’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He turned his head. She looked back at him innocently. He could not believe this was happening. He had spent the last twenty minutes desperately trying to get the woman to stop talking.
Now that he actually needed information, she had apparently taken a vow of minimalism.
"Natasha... I do not want you to literally answer all my damned questions. I just need you to go straight to the point!" he yelped in frustration.
"Then you should go straight to the question. And my name is Naomi," she snapped.
"For goodness’ sake, just give me the fucking address!"
"Ridgewood, Queens," she said.
Dorian went quiet.
Ridgewood.
Queens.
Ah... fuck.
Was he scraping the bottom of the pot for wives now? His first wife had come from old money. His second could spend the average person’s annual salary before lunch and call it a slow morning.
His third had treated social events and Instagram like a sacred institution. And now Wife Number Four apparently had three hundred dollars in her bank account, no car, lived in Queens.
Excellent progression.
Really.
At this rate, Wife Number Five would probably live under a bridge. Dorian pulled back into traffic. Naomi folded her arms and stared out the window.
For once, she was quiet. Dorian should have enjoyed it. Yet somehow it felt strange. He glanced at her.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Dorian looked back at the road. He drove toward Queens while Naomi occasionally gave directions despite the navigation system already doing a perfectly acceptable job.
"Turn left here."
"I can see the map."
"This route is faster."
"The navigation says otherwise."
By the time he finally pulled up outside her building, he had developed several new opinions about marriage.
Naomi reached for the door. She turned back to him. "Do you want my number?"
Dorian stared ahead. "My office will contact you."
"Your office don’t have my number."
"They’ll find it."
She pushed the door open, then turned again. "And you’ll actually look into the divorce?"
"Yes."
"Soon?"
Dorian turned his head slowly. Naomi immediately lifted both hands.
"Fine. Fine. I’m leaving." She climbed out.
******
Dorian returned to Heathcliffe and Associates furious to his bones. The entire drive back to Manhattan had been one long assault on his sanity. His phone barely stopped ringing.
First, his mother. Then his father. Then two of his friends. Then another friend who claimed he was only calling to check on him before spending ten uninterrupted minutes laughing.
Then his most recent ex-wife. That conversation had been particularly delightful. Apparently, Dorian was an asshole.
A selfish asshole. An emotionally constipated asshole. A man incapable of being alone for five minutes without marrying someone.
According to her, he had not even waited for the ink on their divorce papers to dry before finding Wife Number Four.
Dorian had tried explaining that he had not known Wife Number Four existed. That had somehow made everything worse. His mother had been beside herself.
"You married someone and forgot?"
He had no defense for that. His father had been marginally calmer, although Dorian could hear the disappointment hiding behind every word. His friends were useless.
One sent him the news clip. Another changed the name of their group chat to FOURTH TIME’S THE CHARM.
At the end of it all, he had promised his mother he would come by later that evening and explain everything properly.
How exactly he intended to explain accidentally marrying Naomi Bennet in Las Vegas remained unclear.
Hello, Mother. I got drunk, had excellent sex, apparently visited a wedding chapel, and woke up without remembering I had acquired another wife.
Yes.
That would go wonderfully.
Dorian entered Heathcliffe and Associates with murder in his stride. He headed toward the large open office used by most of the associates.
Voices carried through the glass before he even entered. Then he heard the television. Dorian stepped inside.
Nearly every associate in the room was gathered around the screen. On the screen was Dorian outside the courthouse.
Then the footage cut to him grabbing her arm and pulling her through the crowd. The headline beneath it was somehow even worse.
HEATHCLIFFE’S MYSTERY WIFE DEMANDS DIVORCE
Another banner appeared.
SERIAL HUSBAND STRIKES AGAIN?
Nobody noticed him. The anchor continued talking.
"details surrounding when the marriage occurred remain unclear..."
Dorian’s left eye twitched. He looked around. These were lawyers. People he paid very well to work on cases worth millions of dollars.
And they were standing around watching his marital humiliation on television. His gaze landed on a stapler sitting on the nearest desk.
He picked it up. Dorian launched the stapler. It flew across the room and hit the television dead center.
The screen cracked. A burst of static flickered across it. Then it died. Every head turned. Dorian stood there breathing hard.
"Is this what you are paid for?" Dorian demanded. "Uhm?" He swept an accusing hand toward the dead television. "Is this where the firm’s money drowns in?"
Nobody dared answer.
"Get the fuck back to work!"
The room exploded into motion. Files appeared from nowhere. Dorian turned away before he fired the entire department.
And found Adrian standing behind him, with a folder in his hand.
"Mr. Heathcliffe..." Adrian greeted carefully.
"My office. Now." Dorian barked the order and marched past him. He shoved open the door to his office, walked behind the desk and dropped into his chair. "What do you have?"
Adrian stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "I have managed to obtain the county record, license number, officiant, and chapel information." He placed a file on the desk.
Dorian opened it. Everything looked painfully legitimate. He leaned back. Why in the name of heaven could he not remember the chapel?
Was he really that wasted? He remembered Vegas, the bar. His friends laughing too loudly.
Whiskey.
More whiskey.
Naomi.
Definitely Naomi.
The sex he remembered.
Very clearly.
Unfortunately.
There were entire details from that night his brain had preserved with suspicious dedication. The feel of her beneath him.
Her legs around his waist. The way she had moaned his name. That part of the evening had somehow survived the alcohol perfectly.
The chapel?
Nothing.
Which meant it had to be after the sex.
Definitely after.
Because if he had gotten married before sleeping with her, surely something about the ceremony would have stayed with him.
Dorian frowned harder. Had she slipped him something? His attention returned to the file. Was this about money?
Alimony?
Because if that was Naomi’s plan, she had chosen the wrong man. He sure as hell was not going to pay her one dime.
"How did this happen?" Dorian demanded.