Page 112 of Threaded Lies

Or if I want to.

Do I want my company back under Rothschild ownership? Yes.

Is there a reality of that ever happening again? No. Not even with the $30 million.

I tried to buy myself time—to convince, cajole, or even bribe Henry Williams—and that’s proven to be a dead end, barring some kind of miracle.

I have to be content with being equal in ownership to Rhett. I have to assume that wherever Gran is, she’ll know I tried my damnedest to fulfill my promise, and be okay with it.

Because I can’t get around the two-year marriage codicil and I sure as fuck can’t save the company when the sale is already complete.

They were pipe dreams that I clung to. Pipe dreams that I can’t fulfill. Pipe dreams that brought Holden into my life and have made me okay with what Sloane suggested—compromise.

I need to call off the wedding. I’ll pay our parents back for any deposits that are lost and the like, but I can’t go through with this charade anymore.

“Where’d you go to, Sunshine?” Holden asks, bringing me back to the here and now. To the private room in the back of the restaurant, the doorway to which is blocked by a privacy shield. It’s one of several in The Vine, an exclusive resort, and part of the reason celebrities frequent it when in town.

And honestly, how could I allow myself to be lost in my own thoughts when he’s beside me?

I smile. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“Ah, using my phrase. Well, fine.” I yelp playfully as he takes the base of my chair and moves it so that I’m turned to face him with my knees between his spread thighs. “Then I guess I need to make you think of something else.”

“Like?” I murmur and lean forward to brush my lips against his.

“Me.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The kiss is a sweet smolder of promises of more to come once we leave here. Of unspoken words and promises we can’t give one another. Of compromises I’m pretty sure I’m willing to make in one area of my life to get more in another.

None of them sit perfectly with me, but it’s enough for now.

It has to be.

“What the fuck?”

“Rowan?

I hear both things at the same time as Holden and I jump apart. When I look toward the doorway, my brother and Chad are standing there, jaws lax and eyes like saucers.

In an act of desperation, I stand, shoving my chair back. “It’s not what you think.” My whole body vibrates with adrenaline and my pulse races. “It’s not—”

“Oh my god.” It’s my mom’s shocked voice I hear when Chad steps farther into the room. It’s her body shunting forward when Florence bumps into her.

It’s a clusterfuck of split-second emotions that riot through me. Yes, only Chad and Rhett saw us kissing—I think—but the stage is set for our mothers to draw the conclusion of what is happening. The candlelit table. The bottle of wine. The place setting and turned chairs that are side by side. The private room.

“What is going on?” Florence demands, pushing Chad out of the way. And by the way the color drains from her and my mom’s faces, they know. How could they not?

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” Rhett says, his hands fisting as he glares at Holden.

“Rowan?” Chad asks in two broken syllables that gut me. Sure, the engagement might be a ruse, but Holden and me kissing is so much worse for him. I can see it etched in the lines of his face and the sag in his posture.

“This can’t be happening,” my mom mutters. “Our reputations. Our—”

“Sleeping your way to the top, huh?” Rhett says to me, disgust painting every part of his tone. “Of course you are. Couldn’t get there on your own merit so you had to use what you could. I should have known.”

“Fuck off, Rothschild,” Holden says, stepping in front of me, his own fists clenched.