But another image crashed in.
The girl at the altar, eyes red-rimmed. In those silent seconds, she straightened her back and held back tears.
Damn it.
I slammed the bottle down with a thud.
It was done. Genevie chose her path; I chose mine. Three years ago, we split tracks. This was reality, not a fairy tale.
Like it or not, deal or no deal, Harper Evans was my wife now.
Legally, at least.
I sucked in a deep breath, letting the cold air douse the fire in my lungs. The urge to fly west faded, but the mood stayed volcanic.
Two soft knocks at the door.
"Sir."
Alfred.
"Speak."
"Madam Olga reminds you it's late. The missus awaits in your room."
My grip tightened on the bottle.
Olga knew about Genevie's divorce. Probably saw it coming before I did.
"Tell her I got it."
Footsteps faded.
I stood, yanking at my collar in frustration. I had a new wife now, fake or not, and some basics to handle.
At least tonight, I'd show up in that bed.
I strode out of the study.
Thick carpets swallowed my steps. At this hour, Orlov Manor felt like a tomb. Wall sconces cast dim yellow glows, stretching my shadow long over ancestor portraits—like they were watching this farce.
I shoved open the master bedroom doors. Only the bedside lamp glowed, soft and intimate.
A lump under the covers.
Harper huddled in, back to the door, still as stone.
Faking sleep.
Obvious—shoulders too rigid, breathing off, ear tip flushed pink.
I shrugged off my jacket and tossed it on a chair.
Truth was, I was wiped. I planned to ignore my so-called wife, shower, and crash. I got meetings tomorrow and backlog from the wedding—no time for games.
I undid the cufflinks, heading to the bed.
Lifting the covers, I braced for boring pajamas.
