Reject My Alpha President (Iris and Arthur) novel Chapter 137

Chapter 137

Iris

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Suing Arthur for custody feels wrong. Cruel, even–not just to him, but to fnyself and Miles as well. Each day since I took the lawyer’s offer, I feel as if I’ve made a grave mistake.

And yet, at the same time, it feels like the only solution. The only way out from a situation that will just get worse with time.

Arthur lied to me. He hid the truth about our son, hid the truth about Selina, about our love. He lies to his people, too–he keeps me, his true mate, hidden away in exchange for political power.

Therefore, how can I trust him when he says he never intends to use the Alpha’s Heir right to take Miles from me? How do I know he’s being honest when he says he loves me and Miles, and that he just wants the family we built?

I can’t. That’s the hardest part about all of this.

I’m halfway to the car when Arthur’s footsteps pound behind me, right on cue. The sound alone makes my stomach twist, even though I knew he would try to talk to me in private. He was quiet and stoic throughout the entire meeting, but now–now that we’re alone, he thinks he can manipulate me again.

But it won’t work.

“Iris, wait!”

I don’t stop. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, because I fear that if I spend too long looking into those green eyes of his, those green irises that are so much like our son’s, that might not be as strong as I think I am.

Picking up my pace, I tighten my grip on my purse and hurry down the street. Where’s a cab when I need one?

Before I can get far, his hand catches my arm. “Iris, listen to-”

I wrench away, spinning to em, and jab my finger at the center of his chest. “Don’t touch me.”

The hurt in his eyes almost–almost–makes me falter. But I’ve seen this performance before. The wounded look. The plea. The manipulation dressed up as genuine emotion. I don’t believe any of it anymore. I can’t believe any of it.

“Why?” he demands. “Why are you doing this? Just talk to me.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just a sharp, broken sound that scrapes my throat raw. “Talk? You want to talk now? After everything you’ve done?”

“Try,” he says. The word isn’t a request. It’s a command–the Alpha President emerging, used to getting his way. Even though I’m not a werewolf, it works on me, and I hate that it does.