Page 37 of Threaded Lies

Rowan doesn’t know the deal has closed. Can’t. I’ve been over where the contract was with Audrey enough times to piss her off and mentally replayed the steps I went through locking it in my drawer enough times to think I’m crazy.

And I know for a fact that Chad and Rhett haven’t said shit. I made them read that fucking NDA out loud—line by fucking line—so there is zero confusion over the consequences if they spoke about it before I said they could. The lawsuit that would come down on them would be so fucking huge they’d lose more than they already have. I made sure the consequences would be worth it.

So what is it that has happened?

What caused this all to go down? What is he promising her that I can’t give her?

And why is she accepting it from him over me?

“It’s like they’ve been hiding in plain sight, sneaking around behind our backs and scheming this all up so that”—smack. Florence claps her hands together—“they come out and surprise everyone.” She laughs and holds a hand to her chest. “I can’t imagine what else it is they have up their sleeve.”

Wait.

What?

My mind spins as I stare at Florence like she has two heads. Is that what this was all about? Here I was, too goddamn smart for my own good, caught up in my own scheming to have Rowan play me at my own game? Seduce me. Sleep with me. Try to gather intel to help the people in this town that I loathe.

It’s the oldest goddamn game in the book—the helpless ingenue—and I fell for it.

Fucking hell.

But as I look at her, as I remember what that night in New York was like, my mind begs me to believe this sudden revelation—the proof is front and fucking center—but my heart, yeah, that bastard of a thing that isn’t supposed to feel, tells me differently.

The way she still looks at me with hurt and longing and everything in between tells me I wasn’t making shit up.

She fell for me.

She still wants me.

I swear on everything that put me here, she still fucking does. And yet …

Florence emits that giddy little squeal, and I force myself to look back at Rowan. To Chad pulling her in for a hug and pressing a kiss to her cheek. To the stiffness in her posture that she never exhibited with me.

And when my eyes move from Rowan to Chad, he’s looking straight at me with the cockiest motherfucking smirk on his lips.

Our stares hold as my hands fist and my jaw aches from clenching it.

He runs his hand down her back and rests it on the top of her ass. It’s aimed to piss me off. He knows it. I know it. And it fucking worked.

Fuck it.

I’m out.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say before walking away.

TWELVE

Rowan

I just want this dog and pony show over. The lilies of the valley that are fucking everywhere when I hate lilies. The overabundance of the color pink, of people asking me how very excited I am, and the tapping of forks on wineglasses by people hoping that I’ll rush over to Chad and kiss him.

There’s a reason I’m out here—off the barge and standing inside the boathouse—observing my own engagement party from afar, and it’s not because I long to get back to my guests.

“That’s only for the wedding reception,” I stated loudly and bought more time, but I’m not naive in knowing it’ll only stall for so long.

You’re selling the lie, Rowan. Selling it all while catching glimpses of Holden Knight and the misery etched in every ounce of his body.

“Honey, if you keep looking like your dog just died, people aren’t going to really believe you’re so thrilled about marrying Chad,” my mother says with that fake Southern charm tinting her tone.