Chapter 11 （Noah） #2
“Shut the fuck up,” he spits as his hand shoots out, fingers curling around my bicep and yanking me to him.
Our bodies collide, and a ragged breath heaves from his chest. “Your family isn’t my concern; he is.
” His hand bites into my arm, twisting and forcing me to look at the coffee table.
“You fucking bitch. Do you spread your legs for everyone, or does your cunt only dampen for pussy-whipped ranchers?” he snarls, gripping me by the nape of my neck and roughly jerking me around.
I gasp in pain, trying to pull free of his vicious hold. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
Commanding my chin with brutal force, he aims my stare at the coffee table once more.
Image after image of me and Rhett cover the surface.
The photos capture the intense argument he and I had outside Boozin’ Boots—a private moment between us that no one was ever meant to see, something that never should have happened at all.
Bradley shakes me, and a deep growl erupts from his chest. “Care to fucking explain this?”
“Fuck you.” My face flushes, but all I can do is stare at the evidence of what’d transpired between Rhett and me in the heat of the moment.
Where the fuck did those come from? How did he get them?
I never once saw anyone who remotely looked like paparazzi while I was home.
Never knew anyone was watching. My gaze flicks to Bradley. “Were you having me followed?”
“You bet your ass I was. And rightly fucking so,” he bites out, face less than an inch from mine. His eyes are cold. Menacing.
“What I do is none of your business.”
“The hell it isn’t.” His open palm meets my cheek with a sharp crack, the force of it whipping my head to one side.
A strangled cry falls from my lips, and I drag in a breath as shock crashes through me.
Pain bursts along my cheekbone. There’s a ringing in my ears, and in a stunned fog, I remain completely still, staring into nothing.
He hit me. I can’t believe he fucking hit me.
“In case you’ve forgotten, we have a contract.
Everything you do, every move you make, is my business.
” What happened with Rhett has smudged the fine print.
And from the sting of my cheek, Bradley is not happy about it.
His voice drips with condescension, and his words punch into my chest. He’s not concerned about me cheating on him.
This is all about his image. And control.
As far as Bradley is concerned, I’m his property.
“Come on. Tell me how you used your trip home—that was supposed to be wedding-related—to fuck around on me with your pathetic ex-fiancé. Do you realize how bad this fucking looks, Noah?” He chuckles, the sound ugly.
“Nobody, and I mean nobody, disrespects me like that. Remember what happened the last time you colored outside that line? I got what I wanted. You, with my ring on your finger, and a noose around your neck.”
Once again, memories of the day I sat across the desk from Bradley’s father come crashing in with the force of a tsunami wave.
“You want out?” Harold slides two thick stacks of paper toward me. “Here’s my proposition.”
My watery gaze roams over the cover page before darting back to Harold’s keen stare. “What is this?”
His gruff chuckle does fuck all to soothe me. “That is your freedom. You won’t breathe a word of this contract to anyone. In exchange for full control of your masters, you will wed my son and remain married for a minimum of twelve months.”
My lungs deflate, air dissipating. “What? You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.” My eyes flick over to the accompanying nondisclosure agreement.
“Oh, dear sweet Noah, I do not kid. Not where business is concerned. You see, in this life, we are given two names. The ones our parents give us, and the ones we make for ourselves. As you know,”—he raises a brow—“my son hasn’t done a very good job of providing worth to either.
Before he found you in that grungy dive bar, he was in some pretty deep shit.
But then there you were. The shiny new toy to repair his reputation. ”
I’ve heard the stories, but I had discounted most of them because they seemed insane.
Maybe I was too quick to assume Bradley’s innocence.
Before I can respond outwardly, Harold continues, “Where you’re concerned, my son is like a dog with a meaty, delicious bone.
He won’t stop until he’s chewed you up and spit you out.
But”—he pauses, raising his whiskey glass to his lips—“I’m willing to offer you an exit strategy, though it comes with this price: What’s a year in exchange for the career you’ve worked so hard to build?
It’s a simple choice, Noah. Marry my son, fix his public image, then walk away with everything you’re begging me for. ”
“So if I sign this contract and this NDA … that’s it?”
“Precisely.”
I blink. At the time, I thought I was making the right call.
My lips part as I lift a shaking hand to where Bradley’s palm connected.
I couldn’t have been more wrong, and now I’m trapped.
I signed up for this when I scrawled my name across that ironclad agreement.
And as much as I hate to admit it, Bradley’s right.
I belong to him for the next year of my life.
A hand clamps around my wrist and yanks it down so hard that it pulls at my shoulder in the socket.
An anguished cry rips free of my lips, as his fingers dig into my skin, bruising and callous.
“Stop. You’re hurting me.” My throat is thick and voice raspy.
Bile rises as I struggle to pull free of his grasp.
“I’m hurting you? Well, you made me look like a fucking cuck. Can you imagine if somebody else had taken these photos?” The volume of each question gets progressively louder as he continues his tirade. “Do you have a fucking clue about the damage control we’d have to do?”
Resigned to the fact that this is the reality I’m stuck in, I bite out, “It won’t happen again.” No matter how bad this gets, this is what I signed up for. There’s no way out. I’m contractually bound to this devil and silenced by the dried black ink that protects him.
He finally lets me go, only to shove me backward, and my legs slam into the coffee table. I crash over it, glass shattering as I land in a heap on the floor.
Pain is a series of explosions going off throughout my body, and trembling, I turn my head, taking in his fury.
I can’t bring myself to speak, my mind struggling to keep up with the sequence of events that have transpired in the last two minutes.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink, attempting to stop their flow.
My breath shudders from me as Bradley snatches up a vase and heaves it.
“If you’re gonna act like a stupid slut, I’ll treat you like one. ”
Porcelain splinters against the wall behind me, and I cry out, staring at Bradley in horror. “Have you lost your mind?”
His eyes narrow, jaw locked up tight. He jabs a finger toward my bedroom. “Go get ready. You’re used to putting on a goddamn show, so you’re gonna do it now. You’re my fiancée and you better start behaving as such.”
Stalking closer, he nudges me with his foot, his gaze shifting from me to the photographs littered among the glass.
When I don’t move, his chest rises, and the next second spit flies from his mouth, landing on my slap-reddened cheek.
“We leave in an hour. Get your ass in gear.” He whirls, striding toward the sliding door, and steps out onto the balcony.
My hand quakes as I lift it to my face to wipe away the wetness—his saliva and my grief over having done this to myself.
Before I get a chance to stand, the door slides open again, and he pokes his head inside, barking out, “Don’t forget who gave you this life, who gave you this career. I fucking made you, Noah. I’ll break you just as quickly.”
The only way out of this mess is to go through with this wedding. A full year of marriage. One hell of a show.