Chapter Fifteen-Cecilia
Atlas took a shower and went to check on transportation.
Before he left, he leaned down, kissed the corner of my mouth like he didn’t want to go at all, and said, “Don’t leave without me.”
I won’t.
I promised him.
And no, they’re not going to revoke my feminist card for that, thank you very much.
This isn’t about obedience—it’s about trust.
I’m choosing this.
I’m choosing him.
Even if I can’t quite explain why.
Anyway.
We’re leaving as soon as he gets back—heading for his yacht, which, apparently, doubles as a floating chapel of impulsive life decisions.
So now I’m standing in front of a ridiculously huge closet, staring at an open suitcase and wondering how the hell I’m supposed to pack for a wedding and a fake honeymoon and an international crime lord negotiation in Turkey.
What even is my life right now?
I shouldn’t be nervous. I know why we’re doing this.
The marriage is strategic. Tactical. Clean.
It keeps all of us out of a fucking land war in Asia, which, trust me, sucks.
Marrying him secures his position without causing an incident.
It buys us time.
It’s smart. Efficient.
Unemotional.
Keep telling yourself that, Cece.
Something twists inside me, low and sharp and terrifying.
Because I do care.
More than I want to admit.
More than I probably should.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down and see the group chat lighting up—my cousins. My girls.
The first message makes me snort.
Lucy
Bitch you better answer us before I sic Balor on your man’s shit.
A laugh bubbles up before I realize my eyes are burning. I swipe my cheeks, confused by the wetness until I register it—tears.
When did I start crying?
Michaela
Seriously, Cece. What gives? Liam said you’re being forced to fake date some guy??
Lee-Lee
Okay but like, he’s not just some guy, you guys. He’s a fucking prince. A hot one. With chest hair and a yacht. Let’s not panic yet.
Andrea
It’s true. Atlas Stavros is legit royalty. But cuz, are you okay?
I inhale a shaky breath and hold it for a second.
I could lie.
I could play it cool.
But sometimes, a woman needs her family.
Her besties.
And if they happen to be one and the same? Even better.
So I type back with shaking fingers.
Cece
Girls? Um, I think I might be in trouble.
I think I’m falling for the prince.
My thumb hovers over send, and for a heartbeat, I think about deleting it. Rewording it. Pretending.
But no.
Not today.
I hit send.
And then I close my eyes, press the phone to my chest, and whisper to myself, “What the hell are you doing, Cece?”