Reckless Vow: A Marriage of Convenience Romance (Reckless Billionaires)

1. Brook

“It’s not like we need her money.”

I cross my arms and glare at the man who has just read Roberta Montgomery’s will to me and my sisters.

He looks down his nose at me from behind his mahogany desk, his expression pleasant but stern. Like he’s summoning all the patience he can to let me—us—voice our opinions but he doesn’t consider them pertinent.

Rupert Montgomery, Grandmother’s younger brother and her will executor, seems like an asshole. Not the obvious kind, but one who hides behind a carefully maintained smile—a creepy smile.

“It can do a lot of good,” London points out.

Of course, my older sister who runs a gazillion charitable endeavors would see the silver lining in all of this. Besides, her happily-in-a-relationship status doesn’t make it hard to comply with Roberta’s conditions.

Not the same case for me. But as I pointed out, I don’t need her money. None of us do, so what was Granny Dearest thinking?

“She didn’t even know us.” London’s twin, my other sister Paris, rubs her very pregnant belly.

“She did follow your life closely.” Rupert takes off his glasses and puts them down on the thick binder with my grandmother’s will.

The reading of the will took about forty minutes. Whatever can be in all those appendices is beyond me. Thank God we’re not expected to sit through every single detail.

Or are we? Shit.

I fidget in my chair and reach into my jeans pocket to pull my phone out. It’s an impulse to distract myself from the bizarre situation happening here. Or from life in general.

I stop myself and wipe my palms on the sides of my thighs as if they were sweaty. Maybe they are.

In the absence of my phone, my right thumb comes to my lips and I graze my teeth over my raw cuticle.

Sydney, my oldest sister, gives me an admonishing look like I’m one of her pupils in school. My sister is a teacher.

While I know my habit of manicure by tooth isn’t healthy, I don’t appreciate being scolded for it—or anything—by my siblings.

But that has always been the dynamic. I’m their baby sister. Never mature enough. Never organized enough. Failing the whole adulting gig at the age of almost twenty-seven.

That’s why I stayed away for so long. To gain my independence.

Okay, I stayed away primarily for another reason, but being off the hook from my sisters’ well-meant but unsolicited support had been an appreciated side-benefit.

I glare at Syd but drop my hand and almost sit on it. I don’t. I’m not going to behave like a fidgeting child to give her the satisfaction.

She smiles at me with her teacher’s patience and turns to Rupert. “What do you mean she followed our lives? We’ve never met her.”

Our mommy chose our dad. An heiress fell for a blue-collar worker. Her mother severed any contact with her in return. End of story.

Mommy kept her sizable trust fund and after she passed, Dad invested it smartly and got us all a healthy start in life. A blue-collar worker wasn’t such a poor match, after all. Not that Roberta Montgomery ever acknowledged that. Or us.

All four of us, perched on heavy brocade-clad chairs, turn to Rupert, who clears his throat and puts his glasses back on.

“Look, girls, I told her on many occasions she should reach out and get to know you, but Roberta was a stubborn woman. She lost her daughter—that’s how she perceived it—when your mother married your father. And shortly after, she lost her husband. The grief left her somewhat bitter. And after your mother died, well… the grief overcame her.”

He pauses, looking at his hands. Sadness and a ghost of some other emotion linger on his face. If I’m not mistaken, a memory passed through his mind.

The situation is quite surreal. Out of the five people in this opulent office in my great grandmother’s mansion, he is the only one grieving.

Yet here we are, trying to comprehend why our estranged grandmother left us a fortune. With the weirdest condition ever.

It must be some kind of a joke. I look around his office and spy the red light blinking in the corner.

We’re being recorded. It’s not unusual for a wealthy man to have surveillance, but the current conversation feels like a sketch from a hidden camera show.

“So she was bitter and refused to actually meet us, but you said she followed our lives? How?” Sydney returns to her original question.

He startles and blinks a few times, as if while lost in his memories he forgot we were here.

Clearing his throat, he straightens the paperwork on his desk. “She had an agency monitoring your activities, so she could use her influence to help you out.”

A sharp letter opener lies on his desk. It could be used as a weapon. Would it pierce skin? The jugular would be the place to aim for. There would be a lot of blood.

“She spied on us?” London snorts, and I snap out of my morbid fantasy.

This is my problem—my mind keeps escaping to these gruesome made-up scenarios, distracting me from the task at hand, stealing my attention.

“I wouldn’t call it that.” Rupert makes a face like we offended him.

“That’s fucked up.” I lean back and look at my sisters, who seem equally shocked by the revelation.

He glares at me, as if my cussing was the thing to frown upon here. “You went to Oxford,” he practically accuses me.

“Are you suggesting Roberta had something to do with that?” Sydney sounds indignant on my behalf.

I’m speechless, but I can see the blood spraying from his neck where the letter opener would land. I shake my head to refocus.

It would make for a great scene, but that is for later. I need to stop picturing it now. Right now, Brook Lowe.

“Obviously, Brooklyn was qualified to study there, but I’m sure Roberta’s influence didn’t hurt her chances. And I’m sure you enjoyed the premium housing you were awarded on the campus.”

He smiles at me with the fake grin he’s been wearing like a pro, then turns to Paris. “As you did winning the prestigious designer award in your first year at the Pratt Institute.”

Then it’s Sydney’s turn. “Or your continuous well-paid substitute teacher contracts when you were aimless.”

He dares to judge Sydney for those years after her ex-husband’s betrayal?

But he’s not done yet. “You didn’t mind cashing the yearly anonymous donations,” he accuses London, and then, as if realizing what an asshole he’s being, he adds, “to use it for a worthy cause.”

London folds her arms across her chest. “So you’re claiming the woman we’ve never met has been a secret benefactor in our lives. Not that we needed or wanted her help. And now she’s decided to meddle in our lives from her grave?”

“No need for your tone.” Rupert looks genuinely affronted. “Roberta was a very traditional woman, and at the end of her life she was heartbroken all of her granddaughters live without being properly wed.”

Half of my brain is listening to his nonsense while the other side is still trying to reconcile that the essay I wrote nine years ago—where I channeled the darkest experience of my then eighteen years of life—may not have been enough to get me a spot in the creative writing program at Oxford.

When I woke up today, I didn’t imagine I’d end up questioning all my life’s accomplishments.

And I can’t fathom that a grandmother who I’ve entirely forgotten exists—her doing completely—would demand I get married.

“As I said, I don’t need Roberta’s money.” Yes, I use her given name because I don’t feel in any way related to the deranged woman.

I flinch at the thought, because she was my mother’s mother and that should count for something. Especially since I don’t remember Mommy at all. I was barely three when she passed.

“What will happen with the money if we all refuse the inheritance? Or rather, its archaic conditions?” Lo asks.

Of course, London cares about the money. She already sees the number of people she could help with it. And I get it, but at this point I need to get out of here and write that letter-opener scene.

And question all I’ve ever achieved.

Or thought I achieved.

Thank you, Granny.

“Oh, yes, that’s a wonderful question.” Rupert curves his lips, but on his stern face it’s unclear if that’s an attempt to smile. Still just a creepy grin. “In such case, and I really hope it doesn’t get to that, the money will be donated to various organizations.”

He pulls a sheet of paper from the thick binder and hands it to London, who takes it with hope on her face.

I guess we all could get on board with donating shitloads of money. We’re rich, but Roberta Montgomery and her brother are next level. Their wealth is several degrees above ours.

London gasps and hands the list to Paris. Paris swallows and clutches her chest, visibly paling. I jump up from my seat, cross to her and snatch the paper away.

Sydney joins me and peers over my shoulder while I blink at the alphabetical roster of organizations, institutions and some private groups.

“Fuck.” Sydney sums up what we’ve all just discovered.

“That’s right. Granny Dearest challenges our morals till her last breath.” London stands up. “Rupert, I’d like a copy of the will.”

“Of course.” He opens a drawer and hands her a binder. “I was expecting it.”

She takes it from him. “We’ll be in touch.” She turns on her heel. “Let’s go.”

We scramble to pick up our purses and exit the office without looking back at our great uncle.

But I stop and turn. Glancing at the letter opener one last time, I memorize its shape and texture.

When I look up, Rupert is studying me, his expression blank. I shrug, and before I can stop myself I whisper, “Sorry for your loss.”

I give him a smile that I hope shows I’m sincere. If he ever imagined a family reunion, I’m sure it wasn’t this.

He jerks his head as if affronted, or shocked. I’m not sure if I can just turn and leave. I don’t know why I extended my condolences exactly, but perhaps he should acknowledge them?

We stare at each other. Do I have his pale green eyes? I’ve always looked different from my sisters who took after our father. Maybe I have more in common with this stranger than I thought.

I’ve been an outsider in my own family for so long that this odd connection—and I recognize it’s only in my head—spreads warmth through my body.

“Your sisters are waiting for you,” Rupert’s housekeeper says, interrupting the moment, and I dash out without looking back.

“Let’s go see Dad,” Sydney suggests as we climb into Paris’s town car that has been waiting for the past hour.

“Good idea. He must be curious and anxious about this bullshit.” Paris keeps rubbing her belly.

As the car moves, my sisters pull out their phones and call their significant others, while I stare out the window at the passing city.

I have no one to call.

I turn to the rear window. In my mind the house we’ve just visited shrinks slowly on the horizon as we move away, leaving me strangely empty.

In reality, we’ve already turned into the city traffic, and all I can see is a sea of cars.

But the odd connection lingers, and so does the emptiness.

I have been living aimlessly for several months. After almost nine years in England, I returned to help Paris when she was going through a tough time with her baby and the baby’s daddy.

To be honest, that was just an excuse to escape a toxic relationship with my ex. Or maybe Paris saved me from spiraling into a pattern that has been woven through my life—getting attached to the wrong people.

Syd, Lo and Paris are telling the gist of the afternoon to their partners.

Any of them could easily marry tomorrow. Their men adore them, and they live together, anyway. A marriage certificate is a formality for them.

I remember the list of recipients of Granny’s fortune if I fail to comply with her condition and shiver.

One thing is clear—Roberta Montgomery got things done her way regardless of other people’s feelings. And I don’t have much say in the matter.

I need to find myself a husband. Fast.