Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
My father clears his throat. “We should discuss logistics. The wedding is . . . in a few days. The guest list, the ceremony, press control—”
“As I’ve said before. This is private. No guests,” Lorenzo cuts in, slicing into his steak with calm brutality.
“Will your mother be attending?” I ask.
“My mother is dead.” The rough baritone of his voice leaves no room for questions. I want to ask more, but I don’t dare.
“As I was saying…no press. Priest is already booked . . . someone I can trust. Other than that, not a word.”
My mother blinks. “I thought—”
He smirks. “You thought what? That I was going to make a big announcement.”
My stomach twists. “Well, you did go out of your way to strong-arm me into the sham of a marriage, so why is it a secret?”
He spears a piece of meat and lifts it. “You agreed to marry me.”
“Cut the shit, we both know I didn’t really agree to shit.”
He chews, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on mine. “Little Bird, I don’t like your attitude.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Why? It’s so fitting after all, even more so today than five years ago.”
“You need therapy.”
Lorenzo flashes me a grin edged in ice. “I am therapy.”
His friend lets out a bellow of a laugh. “You’re something, that’s for sure.”
“Who are you?” I scoff. “A name would be nice.”
“Oh, this is Rafe . . . but you don’t need to concern yourself with him. He’s here to make sure you all stay in line.”
A.k.a. he’s a crazier motherfucker than Lorenzo . . .
My father dabs at his mouth with a napkin, trying to steer the conversation back to something he understands. “Our reputations have taken a hit with all the . . . recent events. Maybe we should announce the marriage.”
“No,” Lorenzo replies, resting his knife on the edge of his plate. “We will do no such thing. If you want to keep your house and not lose everything, you will obey my rules.”
My mother’s fingers tremble against her wineglass. “We will. We’re grateful for your help, Lorenzo.”
His head tips slightly. “You should be. I don’t usually save the people I dismantle.”
Her face goes pale.
I slice into my own steak just to have something to do with my hands. “And what do you get out of this, aside from new toys to break?”
He smiles slowly. “I get you.”
The words land like a slap.
Heat floods my cheeks, equal parts anger and something I don’t want to name.
“You can’t own a person,” I hiss, setting my fork down a little too hard.
He lifts his glass, eyes dark. “That’s adorable. Wrong but adorable.”
Rafe’s gaze flicks between us, measuring the distance and most likely the danger of me stabbing his friend with a knife. “Maybe we steer away from the ‘owning people’ part of the discussion while we’re all armed with cutlery.”
“What will you do to stabilize the public opinion of my company?” Always business with my father.
“A few puff pieces.” Lorenzo rests his chin on his knuckles. “Don’t worry, I’ll make you look like a saint so fast your head will spin. Profits will be back to normal in no time.”
My fork nearly snaps in my hand.
My mother gives me a warning look. “Victoria . . .”
I force a smile that feels like it might shatter my face. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t be a problem. Even if I hate him, and you basically sold me off like cattle . . .”
Lorenzo’s eyes flash with something sharp and fleeting. “Careful, Victoria. You might hurt my feelings.”
“You don’t have feelings,” I whisper.
He leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping low. “No. I had them. Once. I donated them to a cause.”
My throat tightens. “Which cause?”
He smiles, small and vicious. “You.”
Rafe shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “How about we talk about something that doesn’t sound like the setup to a murder-suicide?”
“Oh, relax,” Lorenzo reaches for his wine again. “If I kill anyone tonight, it’ll be metaphorical.”
My father drains his glass, the crystal clinking against his teeth.
The main course is cleared. Dessert arrives. No one looks particularly thrilled about the soufflé.
My mother picks at hers. “We were thinking of hosting the wedding in the garden, near the fountain. It photographs beautifully.”
“No pictures. And there is no need for a big wedding . . .” Lorenzo says. “The location is ideal, though. We aren’t too close to the ocean. That way, no one will accidentally drown.” He lifts a brow, almost in challenge.
“You mean when you throw someone in,” I mumble under my breath, but he still hears.
His lips twitch. “Accidents do happen.”
I stare at him across the table, nausea rising. “Why are you doing this?”
His expression doesn’t change. “I told you. Consequences.”
“For falling in love with you?” I whisper.
His gaze sharpens. “For walking away.”
The words slice me open.
I look down at my dessert, breath shaky. “You think ruining my family, forcing me into a marriage, taking away my freedom . . . evens us out?”