Her brow lifts. “That’s bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into your sham of a wedding.” She jabs a finger into my chest. “My friend Jemma slept three hours in the past three days to make sure the carnations would match the bride’s gown’s shade of eggshell white exactly. Now, you’re telling me you won’t even bother to stick around?”
“Yes.” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
She bites her lip. I can glimpse her inner war: the pride of the wedding planner versus the fear of the hostage.
I don’t need to guess which one will win out.
By the time we’re in the back of the limo, she’s stiff as a board. I’ve never seen anyone sit up so straight, or work so hard to stare into nothingness. She hasn’t even noticed her purse on the seat in front of us yet.
I pick it up and dangle it between my fingers. “You dropped this earlier.”
She snatches it up without so much as a thank-you. “What game are you even playing at? What’s the goal here, Petyr?”
I lean my head back against the seat and look her over. Her profile is sharp in the tinted light, lips pursed, jaw tight. She looks absolutely furious.
And scared.
“Efficiency.”
“Efficiency?” She scoffs. “Again, you just married a total stranger.”
“You’d be surprised how often that happens in my world.”
Her throat works. Her gaze grows even more evasive. It confirms my suspicions even further. That sheisn’t,in fact, surprised.
Because she’s perfectly aware of how my world works.
Because it’s not justmyworld.
It’s her world, too.
Patience,I tell myself. It wouldn’t be good to spook her now. Not when she already looks ready to bolt.
“Why me?” Sima’s voice is a whisper now. “You don’t know me. You don’t even know my real—” She stops, horrified by her own words.
I let them hang there, amused. “You were saying?”
Her eyes narrow. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Then I’ll answer.” I glance out the window, watch the city pass us by. “I married you because I needed a bride. Mine wasn’t available. You were. The rest, as they say, is history.”
Her glare turns to daggers. “That’s not a real answer.”
“Neither was your name.”
That shuts her up.
“Sima.” I let it roll off my tongue like molten chocolate. “Beautiful name. Not at all like the pedestrian one on your ID.”
“It’s a nickname,” she blurts quickly—too quickly. “I go by Sammi. But my younger brother couldn’t say it when he was growing up. He kept saying ‘Sima’ instead. It stuck, so…”
I hum. Pretend, for a second, that I believe her. Then I laugh. You’re a terrible liar,Sammi.”
Her jaw flexes. “Believe what you want.”
