Chapter 7 Nikolai
Cillian, ever the diplomat, adds, “It could be worse.”
I shoot him an inquisitive look and snarl, “Name one way.”
“You could’ve been forced to marry someone you actually dislike.”
I bark out a humorless laugh. “You think I like her?”
Cillian smirks. “Your tone and words might say no, but your eyes definitely say otherwise.”
I don’t dignify Cillian’s quip with a response as we cross the lobby, the sound of our footsteps echoing through the wide space.
The three of us step into the alley just in time to see Ani slide into the backseat of Alek’s Suburban.
Our eyes meet for a second, and there’s an awkwardness in our stare that catches me by surprise.
The door shuts with a heavy thud, suddenly separating us.
She’s angled toward the window, watching me intently as they pull away from the courthouse.
Enzo and Cillian head toward my SUV as I watch my new bride drive off toward Fifth Avenue.
Shopping…
Fine…
It’s not like I planned on going home and consummating this fraud of a marriage. At least this little temper-tantrum isn’t going to be on my dime. I know she is just making a point—showing me that she is her own person and that she doesn’t answer to me.
Cute, but she’s wrong.
I don’t give a shit how long she’s gone as long as she shows up when she’s supposed to, I lie to myself as I climb behind the wheel of my Range Rover and make the short drive home.
By the time the sun starts sinking behind the city skyline, I’ve spent hours trying to convince myself that I’m unfazed by her bratty behavior and wondering how the fuck it’s possible to shop this long.
I concluded my afternoon making room for Ani’s things throughout the apartment—the closet, multiple drawers in the dresser, and vanity space in the bathroom.
A small gesture of goodwill, as Madison insisted, in an attempt to make this less torturous for both of us.
Now sitting on the terrace of Cillian’s penthouse, I have glass of vodka sweating in my hand from the summer heat and the Manhattan skyline glittering in the distance.
Cillian is leaning back in his chair, Madison curled into his side with something pale and fizzy in her glass.
Across from me, Enzo and Eavan are talking low, their heads close together.
It’s comfortable and routine. It should be relaxing, but my brain keeps circling back to Bergdorf Goodman and the fact that Alek still hasn’t delivered his sister—my wife—even though they closed about an hour ago.
Pacing the edge of the terrace, I take a long drag on my cigarette.
I flick it over the edge of the terrace and exhale through my nostrils.
I lift the near empty glass to my lips, swallowing down the last of my vodka.
The clear liquid burns as it spills down my throat.
As I swirl the melted ice in the now-empty crystal tumbler, I grumble, “So… anyone want to tell me what the hell I’ve gotten myself into? ”
Enzo grins like he’s been waiting all fucking day for this question. “A marriage of convenience, brother. Emphasis on the convenience.”
“Convenient for who?” I mutter. “Because so far, everything has been an inconvenience.”
Eavan doesn’t even look up from her seltzer as she lightly chuckles, “Everyone but you.”
“Don’t worry, Nik.” Madison stands and reaches for my empty glass. Taking it from my hand, she teases like my misery is some kind of entertainment. “She’ll come home soon enough, and then you can spend the night showing her what a man you actually are.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I snarl, abruptly rising to my feet and swiping the glass back from Madison as I glare at my brothers. “Is nothing fucking sacred to the two of you?”
“Lighten up,” Enzo calls after me between laughs as I cross the terrace to refill my drink.
“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t just get shackled to a woman who is a complete stranger. I traded my freedom so the two of you could keep yours.”
“And we all appreciate your sacrifice,” Cillian shouts, sincerity lacing his jovial tone as I step inside.
At the bar, I pour myself a shot and immediately throw it back. The shit I do for my fucking family. I refill my cup with fresh ice and pour another drink. Grabbing my glass—and then the bottle—I head back outside to commiserate my newfound marital status.
The hours tick by, and I keep the vodka flowing.
With every refill, I find new ways to pick apart the absurdity of this situation.
Enzo is enjoying me stewing far too much, tossing in little barbs about how ‘bratty little wives keeping things interesting.’ Cillian is relentless as well, not missing a chance to remind me how I couldn’t pull my eyes away from my bride in the courthouse.
Because, apparently, it’s now a crime to admire a perfect little apple-shaped ass.
Trying to ignore both of them, I try to keep my attention on the moonlit skyline and the burn of liquor settling low in my gut.
By ten, I’m still waiting for my phone to buzz.
When eleven creeps by, I find myself wondering if this was all some obnoxious joke.
By midnight, my patience is long gone, and the half bottle of vodka has loosened the last restraints on my irritation. I polish off another glass and slam my empty glass down harder than necessary. “She’s not coming,” I huff.
Lifting her face from the crook of Cillian’s neck, Madison softly insists, “You don’t know that, Nik.”
“Please. We all do,” I grouse. “Because if she had any intention of showing up, she’d be here by now.”
“Maybe she’s—” I shoot a look at Madison, silencing her immediately.
“She’s not ‘maybe’ anything,” I snarl, shaking my head. “She’s deliberately not here. And that is not how this arrangement is going to go.”
Enzo smirks over his glass. “Sounds like someone is feeling neglected on their wedding night.”
“Don’t fucking start.”
Not heeding my warning, he continues, “I’m just saying, for a man who doesn’t want shit to do with this marriage or the wife who comes with it, you look ready to storm across the city and drag her home kicking and screaming.”
I am ready to do that, and that is the problem.
By the time I finally leave the terrace and head downstairs to my apartment, my mood is pitch-black.
The vodka has dulled the edges of my thoughts, but it has also made me restless.
After kicking off my shoes, I drop onto the bed.
I stare at the ceiling and run through the logistics of showing up at Ani’s hotel right now.
I could. And fuck, I want to. Now on my side, I stare out the window and let out a heavy sigh.
Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it—and her—in the morning.
This might only be a marriage on paper, but tomorrow, she’s going to learn that my patience has an expiration date. And it took her all of a day of being my wife for it to run out.