He calls it “sharing.” I call it “theft.” The laws of Nesovia say he’s in the right because he has a penis and happens to be my biological father.
Damn Roderick. And most importantly, damn Nesovia.
Roman Wellendorff, the deputy minister of finance from Nesovia, is in Barcelona. I was supposed to meet him, but he canceled last minute, which is why I’m heading back to my hotel with nothing to show for it. But then, he probably didn’t want to face me for what was bound to be an unpleasant interaction. I’ve never hidden how I feel about the archaic laws and customs of the country. I even donate heavily out of the private fund I’ve hidden in the United States to his party to ensure they do something about it.
But so far, nothing. The latest measure to repeal the inheritance law failed.Again. The overwhelming majority voted against it. Those men think that their fancy suits and fancier cars can hide the fact that they’re nothing but medieval, unenlightened Neanderthals.
Wellendorff had the nerve to leave me a voicemail, telling me in that condescending, paternalistic voice, “It’s for the best. For your own good, really. Women are to be protected and taken care of.”
Of course. I feelsoooooprotected and taken care of right now, fuck you very much.
I exhale, trying to shake off the frustrating image of my so-called family living a luxurious life they don’t deserve. I need to calm down and focus on my countermeasures.
Men like my dad and Wellendorff think women are helpless, docile little creatures. I’ll show them how mistaken they are.
Because I’m about to get engaged and married, quickly and efficiently, to a man neither my father nor the laws of Nesovia can affect. Once that’s done, I’m moving the company’s headquarters to the United States and will prove to the board of directors that I’m worthy of continuing as CEO by starting a successful joint venture in a new market.
My phone pings, pulling me out of my stewing.
–Preston: It’s all right, I guess. But diamonds are like dicks. All else being equal, bigger is better.
That’s his response to the picture of the engagement ring I picked out for our photoshoot later today? “All else” is never equal when it comes to diamonds or dicks. I know because I’m the heiress to Peery DiamondsandI’m a woman.
–Preston: We can do better than this.
Did he not see that the stone is an exceptionally deep blue, princess-cut, ten-point-two-carat beauty? Even on a phone screen, he should be able to tell based on the proportion of the stone to the gorgeous platinum band studded with clear round-cut diamonds. There aren’t that many natural blue diamonds of this level of saturation, not at this size. I had to pore through our absolute top-tier inventory before I could find one that looked suitably impressive.
–Preston: Leave it up to me. I have just the thing.
–Me: Fine.
I wait for him to send me a picture, but he doesn’t.Whatever. I mentally wave off my crabby mood. The ring isn’t worth an argument. Given that he’s a member of the Comtois family—part of the Sebastian Jewelry dynasty—I assume he has good enough taste to select a suitable ring. Obviously, he wants an enormous stone on his fiancée’s hand, something more than a mere ten-point-two-carat blue diamond, estimated at over a quarter of a million dollars. Something monumental.
This isn’t just a marriage—it’s a business deal. Every detail needs to be assessed based on whether or not it can create the maximum publicity and buzz. After Preston and I marry, our companies are going to launch a Sebastian Peery collaboration in Korea to sell jewelry for weddings and romantic occasions. Koreans spend an ungodly amount on jewelry for their weddings, and it’s going to be a lucrative market to pursue.
In addition, I will also finally get something I’ve been dying for: the ability to chart my own destiny. Although I can’t control my own money or the company until I’m thirty, there’s a loophole. If I get married, control of both goes to my husband. And if he decides to let me take the reins, voilà! I’m in charge.
The contract between me and the Comtoises has a specific clause on that point. As soon as the wedding’s completed, Preston’s going to sign a legal document my lawyers drafted, giving me full autonomy over my assets.
And for that alone, I can indulge Preston’s need to put somethinghelikes on my finger.
The traffic back to the hotel is congested. I check the details that my best friend Bianca, who’s also now my assistant, sent for the day.
Photographers—booked and ready.
Florists—done.
Hair and makeup crew—check.
All Preston and I have to do is play-act a romantic engagement with lots of happy smiles…and without revealing that we had never even spoken to each other until two months ago.
But then he wasn’t my first choice of husband. I wanted Sebastian Lasker.
He probably doesn’t remember the teenager he was kind to, but I’ve followed him—and his career. He’s become quite accomplished—a man worthy of admiration. He’s grown Sebastian Jewelry, not just in size but in profitability. Clever marketing campaigns he’s spearheaded have made it one of the top luxury brands in the world. And even though he’s appeared in public with many beautiful women, there’s never been a whisper of scandal about him. Either he’s very careful or his PR team has done an amazing job.
I’ve sighed over Sebastian’s photos like a high school girl having a secret crush, but I didn’t have the courage to do anything about it until I approached the Comtois family and asked for Sebastian as my husband.
Coco Comtois refused. Apparently, he’s too “special” to be wasted like this.
