I shove the phone back in my pocket and limp toward the elevator. I have pants to find, a fake wife to convince, and about six hours to figure out how to secretly elope.
Easy.
10
PEYTON
The door clicks shut behind Liam, leaving me alone with the echo of his absurd proposal. I pace the length of the suite. Back and forth. Window to door. Door to window. If I keep this up, I’m going to owe him a re-carpeting fee.
Why is it that the more I try not to get married, the more the universe seems determined that I do?
Is there a neon sign taped to my back that saysNeeds a Husband, Any Husband will Do? Or maybe I’m cursed. An ancient hex was placed on my bloodline that destines me to be a bride, to get married to men I despise.
I dodged one bullet with Matt, and now I’m supposed to catch another?
“Absolutely not,” I mutter to the empty room.
It’s insane. The plot of a cheap movie that goes straight to streaming and gets a 30 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes.
Out the windows of my suite, cars drive by, people get on with their lives, with their normal problems. Burned toast. Traffic. Whether to watch football or do laundry. I envy them not having to weigh the merits of marrying a stranger versuswatching their parents get sued into oblivion by a vindictive ex-fiancé.
Matt’s threat of bleeding us dry rings in my ears. Followed by my mom’s voice, the tremor beneath her words on the phone, the way she was trying to sound calm while delivering news that clearly terrified her. Mom doesn’t scare easily. She’s weathered job losses, health scares, starting over more than once—always cool under pressure. But this morning, she sounded scared.
Not for herself. For Dad. Money, for the past ten years, has meant him living a comfortable, pain-free life. Take that away, and he’ll go back to being miserable like before they discovered the immense relief regular injections could bring him. She couldn’t stand to see him suffer. And now she’s afraid he’ll go back to writhing in pain just to get out of bed. All because of me.
How can I drag them into a legal battle that would make chronic pain the center of both their lives again?
My phone pings from the unmade bed.
What now? More threats? More lawsuits? I can’t bear any more bad news.
I approach it, peering at the screen from a distance.
It’s my dad.
I sink onto the mattress and open the message with trembling fingers.
Dad
Hey, Bug. Just wanted to tell you we love you. All that matters is that you’re safe and happy. If you didn’t want to marry Matt, you did the right thing by running. His behavior now proves that more than ever. The rest we can solve together as a family. Come home when you’re ready. We love you. Always have. Always will. No matter what.
The words blur as tears flood my eyes.
He added a string of heart emojis at the end—the same ones he uses for everything from birthday wishes to grocery reminders because they’re “universal.” My dad, who taught me to ride a bike and drive a car and check my oil and never let anyone make me feel small, is telling me that my happiness matters more than theirs. That he’d go back to being in pain for me and not for one second make me feel guilty about it.
A sob claws its way up my throat, caustic and jagged. I press my hand over my mouth to stifle it, but the tears keep coming, hot tracks scalding my cheeks.
My mom and dad are so loving. So impossibly, wonderfully accepting.
They raised me to be kind and strong and to follow my heart, and I’ve repaid them by running from a wedding because I couldn’t make up my mind in time, embarrassing a powerful family, and painting a target on their backs.
They could lose the house, their savings, their health, the peace they earned.
And I’m the reason why.
And despite all that, they’re offering to fight for me. To put everything on the line for my happiness.
“I can’t let them do it,” I whisper. Not when an out is being offered to me on a golden, monogrammed platter. I stare bitterly at the remains of breakfast, at the upturned silver domes and crest-stamped porcelain. Liam has lawyers. He has resources. He has a dysfunctional desire to prove himself to his father that aligns with my need for a shield.
