Page 33 of The Temporary Bride

As my mind shifts forward, the impending wedding looms on the horizon. Initially, the idea of marrying Chloe sparked only a sense of obligation. The arranged nature of our union, a directive from my father, felt like a burden I had to carry, another sacrifice I had to make for the Thorne family name.

Now, though…

The prospect of being bound to Chloe, both in business and matrimony, is starting to intrigue me. There’s a fire in her, a strength that complements the softness I sometimes get hints of beneath her hard exterior. She doesn’t back down, and as someone who’s lived his life by that same principle, everything about her feels like a challenge I want to meet.

I might not have been excited about this at first, but as I pack up my laptop and take a final sip of my coffee, I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face.

Chapter 11

Chloe

The boxes started appearing yesterday, and now they’re everywhere. Stacked in the hallway, lined up along the living room wall, taking up half the kitchen counter. My condo, which has always felt like the one space in my life that’s entirely mine, looks like a storage unit that got out of hand.

I keep telling myself it’s fine. It’s temporary. Three years, and then I can unpack everything exactly where it was and go back to my life. That’s the plan.

The plan would be a lot easier to hold on to if I wasn’t still furious about that meeting. Tristan’s proposal, his insistence that we work together on this joint venture, feels like a calculated move, a chess piece strategically placed to achieve his own objectives.

Every time I try to focus on packing, my mind slips straight back to him. God, this would be so much easier if it was anyone but him. I could pretend to get along with a different Thorne brother. I could pretend there was no friction, no spark. The relationship could be the plastic, manufactured thing it was meant to be, rather than the potential disaster that’s unfolding between me and Tristan.

Each item carefully placed in a box is a fragment of my life, a reminder that soon I’ll be stepping into a new chapter—one that involves not just a business collaboration, but a marriage to a man who’s been my rival for years.

I’m not one to be caught off guard. And I’m not about to let him off the hook.

Frustration simmers within me as I navigate the sea of boxes. The mounting stress isn’t helped by the prospect of merging my life with Tristan’s.

I’m holding on to my condo. I don’t need the money, and there’s a part of me that isn’t willing to throw everything away and leap straight into the whirlwind of Tristan’s life.

But he insisted that we live together during the marriage. Fair enough. In our echelon of society, everyone is constantly in the public eye. The last thing we need is some paparazzo following us home, only to find out that we have two different addresses.

I pause in the kitchen, biting my lip as I glance between the coffee maker and the blender.

Honestly, I’ve never even been to Tristan’s house. I have no idea what to expect. I’ve heard that it’s huge, and that it overlooks the sea, but… does he have a blender? Or is his kitchen just for show?

My fingers toy with my cell phone, resting on the counter. I’ve been avoiding talking to Tristan as much as I can, but for this to work, we need to communicate. And I need to know if he has kitchen appliances.

ME: What amenities should I expect at your place? Trying to figure out what to bring.

It’s a simple question, an attempt to grasp some control over the situation. His response, however, is anything but helpful.

TRISTAN: Basic stuff. Don’t overthink it.

Huffing out a breath, I glare at my phone as I read his message. I’m dismantling my entire life and moving it across the city into a house I’ve never seen and he’s giving me the textual equivalent of a shrug.

Fantastic. Super helpful, thanks. Really appreciate that.

I type back asking about the kitchen specifically, because I need to know what kinds of cooking stuff I might need to bring. He answers eventually, with enough information to confirm that yes, there is a kitchen, and yes, it has appliances in it, but his responses are so brief that I still can’t tell whether bringing my own coffee maker is redundant or essential.

Every answer raises two more questions, and he’s clearly not in the business of volunteering information.

Baring my teeth in annoyance, I glance around my condo. My place is open-concept and airy, with sunlit walls bathed in natural light and a curated collection of custom artwork. It’s an oasis of aesthetic serenity amidst the chaos of Los Angeles. As I gaze around at the familiar, bright walls, I try to picture what Tristan’s place must look like. A shudder runs through me at the thought of some soulless, minimalist bachelor pad, probably kept tidy by cleaning staff but devoid of personality.

What can I expect, really? He’s an unmarried man in his early thirties. I’ll be lucky if there’s a single speck of color in the entire place.

Slowly, as if defusing a bomb, I pull out my cell and type another message.

ME: How is your house decorated? Any specific themes or styles?

I pause, staring down at my phone. I don’t want to get another frustrating non-answer from him, but the thought of living in a sterile concrete block, surrounded by gray sheets and plastic blinds, compels me to hit send.