Chapter 9
PAIGE
“A Marriage of Money: How Mather & Wilde finally lost the fight to Maison Valmont.”
“A hunter in tailored suits? Rafe Montclair will do anything, including arranging a marriage, to expand his empire.”
“The King and his newly bought Queen: How luxury’s first family negotiated a marriage of convenience.”
“How Mather & Wilde finally sold its independence—and its heiress.”
Each headline is worse than the one before. I read them all obsessively in bed, the early sun seeping through the curtains. Clicking open an article brings with it a picture of Rafe in a suit, leaving the Valmont headquarters in Paris.
His face shows no expression.
Below is a cursive sentence. The King keeps winning.
It makes my teeth grind. Article after article details our marriage, and none of it is flattering. In the same article, there is a passage that makes my eyes sting.
Paige Wilde was bribed with shares and promises, a source close to Mather & Wilde says.
Her uncle, Ben Wilde, was ousted the very same day.
She always wanted the top position, the source continues, and allying herself with the one company her family has resisted for over a decade is a betrayal no one in the company will forgive.
My chest tightens like there’s a weight planted on top. I didn’t want to do this. I never wanted to hand Rafe a win, or for the rift with my uncle to expand miles wide.
But I didn’t have a choice.
I tried to change Ben’s mind for years. Change his excesses before they turned into extravagance. But he didn’t listen. He would have driven the company into the ground instead of selling to Maison Valmont. He would rather every single person we employ go without a job than swallow his pride.
But the media doesn’t know that.
Or maybe they do, but nuance doesn’t sell copies, and salacious headlines do. A close source. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s my uncle himself.
I click on another article.
It says Rafe bought me. That I’m Montclair’s latest shiny accessory. The only small silver lining is that as bad as it makes me look, it doesn’t make him look much better. I’m a sell-out, but he’s ruthless. Are there no lines he won’t cross? the article asks.
Notification after notification rolls in on my phone. My friends back home are asking me if it’s true. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t tell anyone but Amy. I didn’t know how to. By the way, I’m on a flight to Italy with my new husband. Long story, but I’ll see you in the fall. Love you!
I ignore most of them.
They’re too difficult to handle.
The weight on my chest intensifies in a clear signal. I’ve felt this too many times. For years, I’ve managed to keep them at bay, ensuring the attacks come few and far between. But this is the third one since Rafe revealed how many shares he owns of Mather & Wilde.
I focus on breathing through the vise around my chest.
Everyone back home will read these headlines. Everyone who works at Mather & Wilde, the skilled craftspeople who make our bags and our loafers, will be talking about this. Right this second.
I’m trying to save the company for them, for all of us.
I can’t have a panic attack. I don’t have the time.
Some people recommend breathing deeply, trying to calm yourself. But I can’t sit with my anxiety for a second longer than I have to. So I stick my feet in a pair of flats and pull on a sundress.
My rings lie on the dresser by the door. Gold and large and haunting. I reach out and slide them both onto my ring finger. There’s only one way to solve the negative press, and as much as I hate it, I’m going to do it.
If I can solve this, it might make the panic disappear.
I set out in search of Rafe.
Villa Egeria is large, and I have only a vague sense of the sprawling hallways and spiral staircases to guide me. Light streams in through the windows and beckons of summer outside. Maybe I should go swimming after this. The cool water will help.
I walk fast and feel the tight noose around my chest shift with every step.
Movement helps. Movement has always helped.
He’s not in the sitting rooms or out on the terrace.
Not in the kitchen, either. I don’t see Antonella or the gardeners.
He’d said no pets, but this place would be wonderful with a dog or two.
A whole pack of them. I discover an expansive wine cellar and a butler’s pantry, but no Hunter in Cashmere.
That’s when I hear voices from upstairs.
I follow them back up the staircase and down the hall toward his bedroom. Beside it is a large library with a pool table in the middle, and across from it a small study. It has dusty blue walls and dark furniture, with a window overlooking the lake.
And sitting at the desk, his computer open and on the phone, is my biggest headache.
“Give them nothing. Kill it if you can,” he tells the person on the phone. His eyes are on me, and he clicks off the call without saying goodbye. “Good morning.”
The politeness in his tone, like he’s dealing with someone he barely knows, throws me off. “Good morning.”
“I take it you’ve seen the news.”
“Yes. They won’t stop speculating,” I say, and wonder if I’m going to have a panic attack right in front of him. I can’t. The embarrassment would kill me.
“I suspect so.” He looks like everything I’m not, leaned back in his chair, linen shirt pressed. The only thing off are the shadows beneath his eyes, like he hasn’t slept. “But I’m handling it.”
“How? By saying no comment to newspapers?”
His eyes dip down my body before he looks back at my face. It’s only a millisecond. I wonder if he disapproves of the rumpled sundress I threw on. He’s the kind of man who wears tailored suits and bespoke Artemis watches.
“It’s a good strategy. We also got this,” he says, and pushes over a stack of documents. It looks like a legal complaint, and seeing the name of the plaintiff makes me feel sick.
“My uncle is contesting our marriage?”
“Yes, as expected. He’s saying you did it to get your shares, and that we’re not a love match.” Rafe lifts an eyebrow. “Love of your life, I believe your parents’ will specifies.”
“We knew he would contest it.”
“Yes. But he has no case. It’s not for a court of law to dictate emotions, and that clause wouldn’t hold up in court.”
My nails dig into the meat of my palms. Maybe. But I don’t want to risk it. “He could make things very uncomfortable for us. And public.”
“He can try,” Rafe says. “Contesting it will cost him. I can bury him in legal fees, drown him in legalese.”
There’s something calming and terrifying about the ease with which he says it. I take another deep breath. “He could turn this into a long, drawn-out PR nightmare.”
Rafe hesitates only a second. “Yes.”
“Then I think we need to hit back. His whole argument is that we’re an arranged marriage, essentially, and not in love.”
“Saying nothing is a good strategy. It always has been.”
“It can be, but only if it’s backed up by something else. Right now you’re just confirming our guilt.”
“This is my reputation too, Wilde.” His eyes sharpen. “Since you’re the PR expert, how would you suggest we handle it?”
“We have the world’s eyes on us right now, so we should make the most of it. Let’s make them all doubt the truth.”
His eyes sharpen on mine. He was dialed in before, but something in him shifts, and the chains around my chest loosen. They usually do if I find another emotion to counteract the panic.
He’s scary when he’s like this.
“You’re telling me,” he says in a low voice, “that we need to perform in front of the media? Show off our… love?”
My throat feels dry. There’s something about the polished, cultured tone and the sharp gaze that makes it seem like he thinks so much more than he says.
“Yes. We need to be photographed in public. Laughing, touching. Make them all question the obvious answer. We can say that we’d been dating in secret for months.”
“No one is going to believe it. It’s too convenient.”
“We don’t need them to be convinced. We just need them to be unsure.”
His fingers tap against the wooden table. “You think you can pretend to be in love with me, Wilde? I’m not sure you’re that good of an actress.”
“You better hope I am, because you’re the one who wants us to pretend in front of Sylvie Li tonight.”
“That’s an unfortunate situation. Yes.”
“So we expand it to a few interviews and media appearances. We take back control of the narrative.”
“I don’t do interviews.”
“Yes, you do,” I counter. “You spoke at a summit two years ago, and you were interviewed by a podcast a few years ago about the renaissance of luxury. And I mentioned that interview you gave to The Financial Tribune, didn’t I?”
Rafe’s eyebrows pull together. “You’ve listened to those, have you?”
“Know your enemy.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Maybe I should be worried about you. Can you act like you’re in love with me?”
Very slowly, his lip curves in one corner. “Yes. I can play my part.”
“You’ve never really been photographed with girlfriends,” I say. “It’s okay if you don’t know how it’s done. Maybe you’ve been too busy tearing down companies and getting turned on by profit margins.”
He looks up at the ceiling. “Between those two charming hobbies, I have had time for relationships. Don’t worry about me.”
“So we’re agreed?” I hold up my hand to show him the heavy weight of my new rings. “Are you wearing yours?”
He shows me his own left hand, with the single gold wedding band across a tanned finger. “We begin tonight.”