“Make sure to give those to your friends,” Floyd commands, looming over me.
Picking up the cards, I take in the details on them, including the roses bordering the words. I hate roses. But how would Floyd know that? We don’t know each other. I doubt he’d even care.
“No. I’m not inviting my friends.” I stand and thrust them back at him.
He steps up to me and grabs my chin, his fingers digging painfully into the skin. I try to shake out of his grip, but he’s holding me too tightly.
“Don’t for a second think that my grandmother and her bloodhound lawyers won’t be sniffing around this union, trying to catch us in a lie.”
One thing I’ve learned about my husband to be – besides the fact that he’s a narcissistic asshole – is that he’s unbearably paranoid. Especially where his inheritance is concerned. Though he seemed in control in my father’s office that day, his facade slips when we’re alone. He’s convinced his grandmother is going to call bullshit on our marriage and somehow get his share of the money donated to charity. For that reason, making this marriage believable has become his number one concern. It’s also the reason he wouldn’t hold off until after the wedding for us to move in together – because why wait when we’re so in love?
“Do you think she won’t ask questions if my fiancé doesn’t have a single person sitting on his side at the wedding?” He squeezes me a little tighter, and I can’t help the wince that passes my lips.
“They won’t believe it,” I say through clenched lips.
“Then make sure they do. I swear, Darius, if you mess this up for me, you and your fatherwillbe sorry.”
Floyd releases me and pushes the cards into my chest. I cover them with my hand, watching as he storms out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.
I’m sitting at the dining table of the penthouse that is due to become my new home. The one we will be ‘cohabiting’ in for the next two years. It’s one of my father’s properties and I’m grateful for it because I refuse to let Floyd into my place. There are too many good memories in my home to let them be tarnished by this man.
I look at the invitations in my hand, then close my eyes and let the tears that I’ve been keeping in all day fall. After a few minutes, I dry my eyes, stand and head to the kitchen.
Nothing in this place belongs to me – it’s devoid of anything that resembles me or that I even live here.
Sighing, I grab my coat and my keys, head down to the lobby, and make my way by cab to my place. I greet the concierge as I walk in, stopping to remove everyone from my approved guest list, then take the lift to the place I call home.
I know it’s not possible, but I can smell Oliver in this space, can picture him on my sofa, his feet up on the table, rolling his eyes at my attempt to get him to love true crime shows as much as I do.
I see all of him here.
His smile.
His laugh.
The way he made me feel loved and cared for.
My eyes land on the little sea bird he carved for me. It’s sitting on the shelf, next to a selfie that Oliver and I took the night we made love in The Vista. I cross the room and pick up the photo, tracing Ollie’s face with my fingertip.
“I love you.” It’s a pointless declaration now. I lost the right to love him when I broke his heart.
There’re boxes piled up against the wall, and as I move through my apartment, I make a mental note of the few things I’ll take with me into my new life. There’s not much. A few of my favourite soft cushions, the odd photo. In my study, I settle on my haunches in front of Norman’s aquarium.
“Ready to see your new home, buddy?” He swims away from the glass, ducking into the hollowed out driftwood at the far side of his aquarium. “Yeah, me neither. Two years, okay? It’s not that long.”
And now I’m lying to my fish.
And myself.
The buzzer connected to the concierge desk rings, and I leave the study to answer it.
“There’s a Caiden Carrington here to see you,” Sasha, the concierge on duty says.
Fuck. I wasn’t ready to see him. Not yet. Not until I had a watertight story – if that’s even possible. Caiden knows me far too well to believe the bullshit I’m about to feed him.
“Let him up,” I say with a resigned sigh.
My palms are clammy and I rub them on my jeans, waiting at the entryway to my penthouse. When the lift doors open, Caiden and Jamie both step out, hand in hand.
