Epilogue The Crimes of Dionysus #2
I collapsed on the arm of the sofa. “I’m sorry, but what in the actual fuck? Because it sounded like you just said Brendan just left Blackguard.”
“I did. He signed the papers. It’s done.”
“And you didn’t say anything? Liam? Shea? No one thought to stop him?”
I didn’t bother to mention Owen. That fucker had been gunning for Brendan’s position for years, so he was probably throwing a goddamn party celebrating this ouster right now (or he would, if Owen were capable of any kind of joy).
But Liam, Liza’s son, my best friend, and a lawyer for the firm, should have spoken up.
Or at least fucking told me, the traitor.
And Shea, my sister, was still young enough that she wanted her big brothers to love her. So why didn’t she say a word?
“What was I supposed to say? He signed the papers and left. It took all of ten minutes. He was ready to go, Ronan.”
“Holy shit.” I started laughing, a cackle that came from somewhere deep in my gut and a part of my brain that wasn’t entirely sane. “Brendan actually did it. Dad kicked out the golden child, and Bren gave the old man the finger on his way out. Holy fucking shit.”
It might have been the first thing he’d ever done that made me like his grumpy ass.
Liza’s impatient sigh was evident even through the phone’s bad speakers. “There’s more.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. “More? What else did he do, moon the board? Set fire to his office? Oh, God, he didn’t piss on the furniture, did he?”
“He did not. He did, however, formally nominate you for interim CEO before he left.”
The laughter died in my throat. “He did what?”
“He put your name forward to take over when your father officially steps down. And since the company needs an interim CEO now…he nominated you for the job.”
I sank fully onto the couch patterned with ugly beige stripes and gold vines that suddenly seemed like they might strangle me.
I was probably still drunk, definitely still a little bit high, but now wondered if there was something hallucinogenic in the pills I’d taken last night.
The last time I took Peyote, a rainbow-colored dwarf with a head like a bunny followed me around Boston for four days.
Imagining myself a promotion wasn’t out of the range of possible side effects.
“That’s…impossible,” I managed a moment later. “I get drunk at charity galas and hit on board members’ wives for fun. Last year, I laced four stakeholders’ drinks with acid just to see what they would do. I’m not CEO material. I’ve never wanted the job.”
It was the worst lie I’d told in a while. Obviously, we all wanted the job. Every child of Niall Black had been taunted with that egregious carrot since we were old enough to walk. We’d been pitted against each other via backyard fights, report cards.
Until recently, it had been all but a given that perfect eldest son Brendan was the front-runner for the position.
Sure, Dad had cast some doubts last month when he announced in front of three hundred people that he would be nominating “one of his children” for the job in the next year.
And sure, I had wondered for half a fucking second if maybe I, with my intimate knowledge of every side of this business, would be the best fit for the job.
That was before I wised up to the fact that our father was just toying with us yet again for his own amusement.
CEO was always Brendan’s to lose.
Which now begged the obvious question: why did he just throw the whole fucking game?
“Why the fuck would he do this? And why me?”
“Probably because you’re also the one who’s been solving impossible problems for this family for years.” Liza echoed things Brendan had told me for years. “This is your chance for recognition, Ronan. For legitimacy.”
Goddamn it. Maybe she was the witch this morning. She was certainly reading my deepest, darkest thoughts.
Maybe I was tired of being the family joke while Brendan got all the glory, Owen played his political games with the grace and personality of a rhinoceros, and Shea was crowned the princess while acting like a brat ninety percent of the time.
Maybe I wanted people to see that behind the party boy bullshit, I was actually fucking good at what I did.
Maybe I could even be great.
“But…” Liza said.
I sighed. There was always a but. “Lay it on me.”
“The board—your father included—expects the CEO to meet certain standards. Family values. Stability. They want someone who’s going to settle down, get married, have kids. Present a respectable image.”
I frowned. “You’re kidding. Since when did Dad turn into a tradwife advocate?”
“Ronan, why do you think your brother suddenly got engaged? The newspapers figured it out yesterday too—he was doing what was needed to project that image. I doubt a fake engagement will do it for you, though.”
“So, what, am I supposed to get married now? To who, a fucking showgirl? Maybe a lady of the night?” I laughed again.
The idea of me walking down the aisle with anyone, promising my life to an actual living human, was absurd.
I could barely promise to remember a woman’s name, much less my fidelity and love.
“The board won’t care who you show up with as long as you look good doing it,” Liza said. “That’s what I’m telling you.”
I stared out the window. The sun was fully up now, dimming the lights of the Strip under those bright golden rays. Ironically, it was the only time of day the Strip looked almost peaceful.
Maybe I could do this. There were chapels down the block. It wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’d ever done. That was the year I did the Carnaval in Rio and went missing for two weeks straight. Fun times.
“Liza, I need to think—”
A knock cut me off as the bedroom door opened.
And there she was. My mystery nymph, wrapped in a sheet like a sexy burrito, hair everywhere, makeup smudged, but as edible as anything in a restaurant. Maybe more.
“Liza, I gotta go,” I muttered.
“Ronan, we need to—”
I hung up.
“Hi,” said the girl.
God, even her voice was gorgeous. Melodic and throaty, like a magical bird.
Maybe this was why Zeus wanted to fuck a swan.
“Hi,” I greeted her as I stood. Fuck the mess in Boston. Fuck the board, fuck Liza, fuck this ridiculous marriage bullshit I was supposed to perform.
At least, that’s what I was thinking as I crossed the room to unwrap this little vixen.
Until she held out her left hand.
There, gleaming in the morning light, was a gold band.
On her ring finger.
On her left hand.
Which meant—
“I realize this is kind of a weird question, but…did we get married last night?”
I stared at the ring. Then at her face. Then at my own left hand, where—oh, fuck—a matching band wrapped around my ring finger like chalk around a body at a crime scene.
What the fuck had I done?
The girl—my wife, apparently, because my life had morphed into a bad romantic comedy—stood there looking like she might either cry or bolt.
Possibly both. Those green eyes were as bright as freshly cut limes, and she was clutching that sheet like it was the only thing keeping her from being dragged into the underworld.
That was when the craziest fucking thought I’d ever had the privilege of having crossed my mind: Things could be worse.
I preened for a half second when the girl’s gaze flickered down to my boxer briefs and back up, then channeled every ounce of the charm that had gotten me in and out of impossible situations.
This was fine. This was manageable. Shit, this might even solve my CEO problem as long as my accidental wife wasn’t a serial killer or a socialist.
Redistribution of wealth doesn’t really jibe with billionaires, you know?
“I suppose reintroductions are overdue, then,” I said, extending my hand like we were at a fucking networking event instead of standing next to naked in the middle of my hotel suite. “Hello. Wife. I’m Ronan. Ronan Black.”
Looking for more of Brendan and Simone’s happy ending? Check out their FREE extended epilogue, three months later, HERE.
Thank you for reading Morally Black Betrothal!