Chapter 25 Mila
Chapter 25
Mila
A Little Bird Told Us ...
news that will rock the London dating scene. Lean in my little cluckers, because do we have juicy news for you!
Fin DeWitt, our favorite man about town, the darling of the gossip columns and one of the head honchos over at Maven Inc., is officially ...
Off the Market !
Yes, you heard it here first. Fin and his dark-haired mysterious mate were spotted getting spliced at the jewel in the crown of the DeWitt resort hotel chain’s exclusive Indah Atoll on the weekend.
“Oh, no.” I press my hand to my mouth. “Oh, no, no, no.” I glance up, my gaze finding Fin’s. “What the fuck? How did this happen?”
“I guess someone tipped them off.”
I can barely process his answer, let alone make sense of his expression, my eyes drawn to the rest of the article. Like a car crash in the making.
You might remember last week a Little Bird reported Fin’s partner in crime, Oliver Deubel, and his fiancée, Evie Fairfax, were seen climbing aboard Maven Inc.’s private jet at London City Airport, but we had no idea it would be to attend Fin’s nuptials.
A Little Bird would like to pass on their congrats to him and his new wife, twenty-nine-year-old wedding planner Mila Nikols ...
“They know my name!”
“I know.”
... while also offering commiserations to the rest of us.
“Well, that’s just charming,” I mutter without looking up. Why not just print Congratulations, you bitch!
Single women everywhere will be crying into their G to have (allegedly) stolen him from another woman—well, that’s the kind of smack talk that gets you (virtually) pilloried!
“This is going to ruin my business.” My words sound eerily calm. So matter of fact.
“I don’t see how.”
My head turns his way, anger flaring inside my chest. “Did you not read this?” I say, holding out his phone.
He takes it from my hand and slides it away. “I think you came off quite well. It’s me they made sound like an asshole. For what it’s worth, Princess Marta is an investor in a couple of Maven projects.”
I hold up my hand. “I don’t care.” Do I?
“As for Charlotte, I’ve seen her around, sure. And I’m pretty sure we interviewed her brother for a position with Maven, but that’s it.”
I huff but don’t look up. There are enough images of them together on the internet. “Yet she’s ‘heartbroken’?” I say, making physical and very snarky speech marks around the word. My God, am I jealous? I think I am—jealous and annoyed that she might’ve had her paws on this man. Of all the ridiculous ...
“I’m sure she could squeeze out a few tears for the cameras. Isn’t she on some reality TV show?”
“So I’ve heard,” I mutter. Maybe he really doesn’t know her.
“I guess some people will do or say anything for publicity.”
Publicity.
Pub-li-city. The exact thing I demanded (nicely) from Oliver as part of our deal. My name in a few choice publications, with the aim of drawing in business—drawing in brides, if not ones from Oliver and Evie’s circle, then those who aspire to live the high life.
I suppose I was so annoyed (and secretly jealous) reading that article, that drivel, that I failed to see the bigger picture. I didn’t want anyone to know Fin and I were married, or to learn the story behind it. I wanted to claim success on my own terms.
But what’s done is done, and the genie is out of the bottle, so I may as well put him to work! Because, as it turns out, being married to Fin might not be so bad after all.
Women—brides—whether wealthy or professional, social media influencer or social climber: come one, come all. Don’t just book me to plan and implement the wedding of your dreams—aspire to be lucky in love, just like me. The wife of London’s most popular bachelor.
Until our amicable split, I guess.
“That was a big sigh.” Fin takes my hand. “You’re convinced being married to me is going to be to the detriment of your business, aren’t you?”
“No, actually.” I don’t sound happy about it. Mainly because I don’t want him to gloat. “Being married to you might just be the making of it.”
“The bigger picture, huh?” His mouth hooks up in one corner as though pulled by an invisible piece of string.
“There’s no need to be smug.”
“ Moi , smug?” He presses a hand to his chest a touch theatrically. “The man who’s fucked half of London? The man who the other half of London would just love to fuck?”
“I’m sure I didn’t say that.”
“Maybe you didn’t, but the press? They make shit up. I know you were worried about people finding out, and I know you’re stressing about your fee. But you met your part of the bargain, and Oliver will meet his. If he knows what’s good for him,” he adds in a mutter.
“I’m not going to come between you and your friends. And I didn’t want people to know, because they’ll assume I’ve married you for your money!”
“So let them. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. There’s just the way you spin it.”
I’d like to spin him sometimes. On the end of my foot.
“You mustn’t have spent much time on social media,” I retort. “Oh, I forgot.” I give a superior sniff. “You’re old.”
“Old enough to know better and not give a fuck. Mila, I don’t care if you climb out of this plane and announce to the world you only married me for access to my cock—”
“Shush!” I hiss, my gaze sliding to the galley, where Agata is likely to be.
“—because it won’t stop people thinking what they want. Or what’s most entertaining to them. And Agata has worked for us for years. She’s a good woman who signed a watertight NDA.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “Thank you.” My lips draw together like the strings of a purse.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, making a flourish like he’s Aladdin ’s Jafar. “Oh, suspicious one.”
“This is all a joke to you, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary,” he says, reaching for my hand again. “I might be the only one of us taking this marriage seriously.”
I pull from his hold, biting my tongue against asking what he means. “I’ve been in this business for almost ten years. I know what people are like. I’ve spent most of those years bending over backward to cater to people’s whims.” Ten years of anticipating my Monday-morning emails—I swear the process has aged me. Monitoring the comments on my social media accounts. More often than not, it’s praise I receive, but when the complaints come in, people can be really savage.
“Maybe from today you won’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“Yes, I’m sure people will stop complaining once they hear I’m married to a legendary cock .”
“For better or for worse,” he says, purposefully misinterpreting the insult.
“You just couldn’t resist sticking that in, could you?”
“I suppose you’re gonna tell me that wasn’t a Freudian slip?” he all but purrs.
“Let’s go with worse ,” I retort, folding my arms. Mainly because his tone feels like the brush of his thumb across my nipples. How can he simultaneously annoy me and make me hot? But I haven’t fought this hard for this long to watch my business get flushed down the pan.
“Nah, not when your profile will increase with me on your arm.”
“Oh, listen.” I hold up my finger— hush . Then I turn my head as though straining to catch something. “Did you hear that?”
“It’s just engine noise.”
“No, I’m pretty sure that was Emmeline Pankhurst turning in her grave.”
“A high-profile husband,” he repeats.
“You mean a notorious playboy ,” I counter.
His playful expression falters, and I’m immediately apologetic—I’m angry and lashing out when none of this is his fault.
“That was unfair,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. If you want to make it up to me, there are still twenty minutes before we land.”
“You wish.” Maybe I do too. But only couples in a real relationship have makeup sex. “Can we really do this?” I begin again. “Pretend it’s real, the same way as we have been?”
“Sure we can.”
“But we won’t be doing it for Oliver and Evie. We’ll be doing it for my business.”
He shrugs, unconcerned.
“Why? Why would you help me?”
“Because we’re in this together.” He reaches for both of my hands.
“But what about your friends? What do we tell them?”
“We can tell them the truth, or we can say we’re in love. That’s up to you.”
“You’d lie to them? For me?”
“You’ve got more to lose, so yeah, I’d lie to them. If you want me to.”
“I think that might be best,” I whisper, feeling like such a shit.
He gives a decisive inclination of his head. “We’ll issue a press release. Post the news of our wedding in The Times , saying we met months ago, which is true. We’re basically sticking to the facts.”
“Minus the closet interlude,” I add. “That wouldn’t help.”
“We’ll say we’ve been keeping our relationship under wraps. That we weren’t ready to share any of the details. Also somewhat true.”
“But what about your dating life? The women you’ve been seeing in between then and now. Will they be as discreet, do you think?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“And then what?” I ask, not quite understanding why he’d go along with this.
“We’ll stay together at least until your business has recovered. Keep the divorce plans on the down-low in the meantime.”
“No more jokes about settlements, please. You’ve done enough for me.”
Fin is a lot of things. Annoying and irreverent. Insanely good looking and super hot. Kind and generous. Sweet sometimes. Infuriatingly maddening. But I still don’t get why he’d do this. Other than amazing sex.
Agata suddenly appears by Fin’s seat, her expression giving nothing away as she does a surreptitious seat belt check. “Is there anything I can get you?” she asks with a smile. “Last chance saloon before we come in to land.”
“Thank you, Agata. We’re fine.”
She smiles and leaves again.
“ Fine will do,” Fin adds, turning to me once again. “ Fine is making the most of the situation. But what that situation is, is up to you.”