29. Follow-Ups & Faking It
Chapter twenty-nine
Follow-Ups & Faking It
Marlow
I’m having a hard time forming actual words. My brain knows the English language—I use it daily—but right now, all I can manage is, “I’m sorry. A what, now?”
Chelsea barrels into my office like she lives here. Hair bouncing. Clipboard in hand. Zero awareness that she’s walked into a war zone.
“Your follow-up!” she chirps, as if this is a normal day. “Now that you and Declan are past the thirty-day back-out period, the contract automatically renews, and you’re officially part of our finale episode!”
I glance at the spot on the floor where I last threw my stapler and curse the fact that it’s out of reach.
If Declan had just signed the damn divorce papers when I asked, we wouldn’t be in this mess.
I wouldn’t still be legally bound to this charming, infuriating jackass with cheekbones that should be illegal.
Declan clears his throat beside me. “Forgive me and my wife, Chelsea—”
“Stop calling me that,” I hiss, but he ignores me.
“We weren’t expecting you. Can you remind us what this follow-up interview involves?”
“Absolutely!” Chelsea beams. “So, when you got married and signed all those fun little documents in Vegas, you agreed to either file for annulment within thirty days, letting the show know, or commit to a full year of marriage. Surprise! That milestone passed and I am so excited to tell your story! And how cute is it that you ended up working together?”
“Ha! Cute,” I say, entirely too loudly. “And what happens if we back out now?”
“I’m glad you asked. People try that all the time.
” She continues with a fake but deadly smile on her face, “But since you did sign a contract, we’d sue you for breach, then we’d run lots of unflattering reports on TMZ about you.
It all gets very ugly.” She pauses before she adds, “Ugly for you, of course. Not us. We wouldn’t break our word to you! ”
I blink. Once. Twice. Declan, that smug bastard, just leans back on his heel like this is amusing.
Chelsea continues, undeterred. “But, since you’re not backing out, this first meeting is just a check-in. No cameras, no pressure. But the next one? That’ll be recorded. We’ll need some fresh footage for our ‘Where Are They Now?’ segment before the finale airs.”
“I’m sorry, Chelsea.” My laugh escapes somewhere between nervous and unhinged as I try to keep a lid on the rage bubbling just beneath my skin.
“I just thought we’d get a warning bell or something.
A call. Maybe a smoke signal that said, ‘Time’s almost up before you’re tied to this lunatic for the rest of your life? ’”
Declan strolls up behind me and slaps me on the ass. “Where would be the fun in that, how do you say in American? Buttercup?”
He knew. That smug, manipulative bastard knew about the clause the whole time. That’s why he dragged his feet. Why he played all those ridiculous games. None of it was random. This was his plan from the beginning.
Back me into a corner. Leave me no clean way out. Force my hand until going through with this ridiculous charade became the only option I had left—even if it meant risking my reputation, my position, my entire damn career.
I step down on his foot with full intent. He drops like a sack of flour, pretending he’s tying his shoe.
“Fuck!” I hear him hiss.
“So, funny story, Chelsea,” I say through clenched teeth as she eyes us like we’re two feral cats. “Tomorrow, Declan and I were actually going to—”
“Move in together!” he cuts in brightly, bouncing back up like nothing happened. “If we’d known you were coming, we would’ve had you bring cameras for the big move-in.”
“What?!” I yell. “No. He’s—”
“My wife is simply being cautious,” he says smoothly, placing a hand over mine like this is some kind of press conference and not a hostage situation.
“We haven’t revealed our nuptials to the team yet.
You know how it is—her father being who he is, her being who she is. The optics. They’re…complicated.”
Chelsea nods thoughtfully. “I see. Totally understandable.”
“So naturally,” Declan continues, as if he’s not making this up as he goes, “Any TV or media coverage of us must be held off until…”
He looks at me, waiting for a save.
“After Christmas. New Year,” I blurt out, because at this point, my body is no longer responding to my brain. It’s running purely on survival instinct.
“Completely fine!” Chelsea agrees, beaming.
I look at Declan like he just negotiated my ransom.
“These won’t air until the Spring so we can make sure your interviews are later in the schedule.”
“So kind of you,” Declan says warmly.
“I’m sorry. Would you excuse us for a moment? I need to have a word with my…Declan.”
I grab Declan by the arm and yank him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us.
“What are you doing? What the hell is wrong with you?” I whisper-shout.
He just shrugs, infuriatingly calm. “Saving your ass. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Saving my ass? How is this saving anything?”
“You heard her! If we backed out now, the network would air everything. You’d get sued. Do I need to spell it out? Your dad, the team—it would all blow up. You want that mess just to prove a point?”
I grit my teeth. Damn it. He’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong.
“Fine,” I hiss. “So we’re doing this.”
“We’re doing this, Americana.”
“Don’t say it like that. Don’t look so smug. You’re still the enemy.”
This absolute asshole takes the hand he just had inside me and brings it to his mouth like he’s tasting wine.
He licks. Sucks. Moans like I’m the best thing he’s ever put on his tongue.
“And God,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine, “do I love crossing enemy lines.”
“You lunatic.”
“For you,” he simply says.
Then he washes and dries his hands and reaches for mine, maddeningly warm and sure.
“Come on, la signora Agassi,” he says. “Let’s go play happy couple.”
When we step out of the bathroom, Chelsea’s already made herself at home, casually inspecting the office like she’s on a tour. She pauses by a shelf, scans the walls, and cocks her head.
“Funny,” she says with a little grin, “no pictures of you two anywhere.”
I keep my tone light but firm. “Chelsea, we’ve been over this. We’re keeping things quiet—for now.”
She snaps her fingers like she’s just remembered. “Ah, right! Where is my head these days?” She pats her stomach with a proud smile. “Pregnancy brain.”
“I see,” I reply, smiling despite myself. There’s something charming about how eager she is to share the news, like we’re all part of some big secret together.
She flips to a fresh page on her notepad. “So, tell me—how’s married life? Any surprises since the wedding?”
I let out a dry laugh. “Well, aside from the minor detail that my husband turned out to be the team’s new midfielder and now I have to manage him while trying to earn the respect of a staff, who still thinks I got here by nepotism? Or were you hoping for something a little more romantic?”
Chelsea just hums and scribbles notes, completely unfazed.
Okay. Maybe that came out a little harsh.
“I think what my wife left out,” Declan cuts in smoothly, flashing that diplomatic smile. “Is how I’ve made it my mission to make her life easier, even from a distance.”
Chelsea lifts her brows, intrigued, and of course, he leans into it like he’s reading straight from a romance novel.
“She has a demanding job, so I’ve been sending over her favorite pastries on mornings I know she has long meetings.
Flowers on her desk every Friday. And not just roses, I actually pay attention.
Lilies, gardenias, once even wild sunflowers because she mentioned them in passing. I take notes,” he says proudly.
At least the asshole is a good liar.
I blink, caught somewhere between baffled and furious that he’s spinning fiction this well. Chelsea looks seconds away from swooning.
“She refuses to let me do her laundry,” he adds with a chuckle, “but I’ve been stocking her fridge.
I leave little notes on the oat milk and eggs.
And yes,” he says, slipping his hand around my waist with that same infuriating charm, “that’s why we’ve decided to move in together.
It’s just… easier to take care of her properly that way. ”
Chelsea melts. I want to combust.
“Oh,” she says, pressing a hand to her heart. “You two are just—wow. I love love.”
Declan squeezes my hip. “So do I,” he says.
“You’d better sleep with one eye open,” I whisper under my breath.
When the interview ends and Chelsea’s heels finally click out of range, Declan turns to me.
“And you’re moving in with me.”
I blink. “Okay, first of all—we’re going to have to actually discuss that. And second, why the hell would you just assume I’d move in with you?”
“Because your father lives in your building. And he can’t be anywhere near the sounds I’m going to pull out of you.”
He presses a soft kiss to my cheek. I am completely speechless with that comment and my traitorous body immediately reminds me of the feelings those sounds bring.
“Can’t wait to welcome you home, wife.”