What the matriarch meant is he’s too good for a girl like me, one with a billion scandals attached to her name. From her perspective, I’m a pig trying to get her precious pearl. Her assessment stings, but I’m not explaining my past to her. Trying to make other people understand has never done me any good.
Besides, I haven’t forgotten the lesson Sebastian taught me. It’s never steered me wrong. And Preston is good enough for what I need to do.
Almost an hour later, I’m in a gorgeously appointed corridor, striding toward the penthouse suite I booked for myself and Preston. I hold my phone screen over the security panel on the door at the end of the hall. The light turns green, and I open the door and walk in, the thick carpet muffling my stilettos.
The living room opens up to a gorgeous Spanish vista of white buildings, narrow streets and cloudless cerulean sky. The suite comes with an ivory Steinway baby grand and four vases of fresh cream and pink roses. The photoshoot is going to take place during sunset, when the light’s at its best. The florists are sending even more flowers later, and the makeup and hair people will show up, too.
An ice bucket sweats on a silver tray on the table, but the Dom’s already uncorked. A flute that has clearly been used already and another clean one sit beside it.
I let out a small, resigned sigh. Preston isn’t known for delaying gratification. When he saw the champagne, he probably couldn’t control himself.
Where is he?I look around the living room area or the fully stocked bar. Did he feel jet-lagged and decide to nap? Or is he taking advantage of the Jacuzzi?
Then I hear something.A moan. If it were lower-pitched, I might assume my ersatz fiancé was jerking off, but the sound is too thin. Unless he has some hormonal dysfunction I don’t know about, he shouldn’t sound like that under any circumstances.
The frustration that’s been building up reaches my eyeballs. I struggle to suck in air through sudden fury.
When Preston and I discussed our expectations for this marriage, I told him I’d appreciate some faithfulness and discretion, and he agreed. Screwing a woman a couple of hours before we’re supposed to take photos as a newly engaged couple in the suiteIbooked and paid for is anything but being faithful and discreet.
The desire to grab one of the vases and crack it over his head is nearly overwhelming, but I stop and put a hand to my forehead. I can’t just call this off.Focus on the goal: to be free—to be my own person. I’ll have to find a way to deal with Preston after my lawyers successfully expatriate Peery Diamonds from Nesovia to the States.
But the fact that I’m stuck in this awful situation is like cement being forced down my throat. Desperately ignoring the rage pounding through me, I stride to the bedroom and shove the double doors open with a crash. I glare at the giant bed, where Preston’s on top of some woman I can’t see. His ass stops in midair.
“What the fuck?” he yells, craning his neck. “Who the—”
Our eyes meet. All color leaves his face. His Adam’s apple bobs; his mouth opens and stays that way, making him look like a particularly dim-witted chicken.
Can we still proceed with the wedding if I cut his balls off?It isn’t like we’ll need them.Icertainly won’t. His filthy, indiscreet, cheating penis isn’t getting anywhere near me.
“Oh, shit,” he whispers.
“What’s wrong, baby? Just tell them to go away,” the woman beneath him says in an annoying, nasal whine.
My blood roars. This better not be who I think it is.
The woman shifts to look at me. And it’sexactlywho I think it is—Vonnie.
“Oh, it’s just you,” she says.
I should’ve brought a vase in here—to crack it overherhead.
“Why are you acting so mad? I’m more his type anyway,” she adds.
Despite the fact that we have the same father, we look nothing alike. She took after her mother—dark eyes, dark hair and a petite build that brings out the protectiveness in men. Unlike Karl, her nose is correctly proportioned, and her features are delicately carved.
I took after my grandfather—who gave me platinum-blond hair and pale blue eyes that some gossip sites call “hard and unfeeling,” and a tall, statuesque frame, which is often referred to as “intimidating” and “domineering.”
“You’re fucking mysister?” I demand to Preston, rage thundering in my veins.
“I can explain!” He puts a hand out. He doesn’t bother to glance at Vonnie.
But I do, and I notice something else that triples my blood pressure. “Are thosemy shoes?”
“It isn’t like you were wearing them,” Vonnie says, sitting up and defiantly tossing her hair over a shoulder. She doesn’t bother to hide her nakedness.
“They’re brand new Guccis I picked up in Milan!” Last week, as a matter of fact, for today’s photoshoot. What an idiot I’ve been. The realization that I’ve wasted so much of my time and energy renews my fury.
“So?”
