Chapter 12
RAFE
“So we have to plan a wedding. In two weeks.” Paige is pacing in front of me.
Despite the late hour and the breeze, the room is still hot. Too hot. I undo the top two buttons of my shirt. Pain shoots through my left hand with every movement. I hurt the wrist fighting and bruised one of my knuckles despite the wrapping.
I have to be better next time.
“Yes. I’m aware,” I tell her. It was my senseless fucking idea. I cursed myself the entire boat ride home.
“That’s a short period of time, but we can do it.” It sounds like she’s psyching herself up for battle. It would be sweet, if she weren’t Paige Wilde. “Would we invite people? Friends? Family? We’d have to, wouldn’t we? If we want it to look real.”
“I imagine so, yes.”
She puts her hands on her hips. She’s in some damned short skirt, and it leaves her long legs on display. She’s kicked off the distractingly tall heels, but her legs still look far too good. “Are you always psychotically calm? This situation calls for a bit of panic, you know.”
“Panicking helps no one.”
“It helps me feel better.” She starts pacing again. I lean back against the couch, and maybe it’s the drinks I had at dinner, but admiring her form while she walks isn’t too bad.
I shouldn’t.
But here I am, doing it anyway.
“We’ll need to make it big. Hire photographers,” I say, and reach for my glass of whiskey. Drinking is a surefire recipe for more nightmares, but I need to take the edge off. You’re a killer, she said on the boat.
It had to have been a guess. She reached for anything, however low, to win an argument. There’s no way she knows how true it is.
But my older brother is dead because of decisions I made that day, over fifteen years ago, and I’ve chafed under that weight ever since.
Her reminder shouldn’t bother me.
I lean my head back against the couch. “You can’t jump like you did today,” I tell her. “When I took your hand.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “I didn’t jump.”
“You flinched.”
“I did not flinch.”
I look up at the ceiling. “Are we going to argue over every single little thing?”
“Yes,” she fires back, “because that’s the only thing we know how to do. And I didn’t flinch.”
“You froze,” I correct, “and it was only for half a second, but I saw it. And so will other people. If we’re going to do this in public, we need to look convincing.”
“I know that.” She sounds frustrated and peeved, and I reach for my drink again. My ribs hurt from the fight. I feel it with every breath. Not enough that there’s a crack. Just a bruise. I’ve learned to tell the difference.
I take a deep breath, just to feel the pain. “Do you have any family you can invite?” I ask. “I’ll ask mine. Unfortunately.”
Her eyes fall on mine. “I have two cousins that might come, and friends. But are we… do they… are we pretending in front of them too? In front of your family?”
“My sister and my mother know the truth.” Although my mother didn’t exactly react well to it. She loves to put her emotions on me in long, dramatic conversations where I have to reassure her. She’s been that way for as long as I can remember, but it got worse after my brother’s death.
After my parents divorced, she moved to the South of France, and over the years, things shifted to where I feel more like the parent.
On the phone, she told me that she couldn’t believe I’d marry someone without telling her beforehand.
She was all indignation, and I chose not to remind her of the short-lived marriage she had with her yoga instructor that I was not told of until she called to ask for help from my legal team for the divorce.
But she’s fully brought into the fold now and will be at the wedding to pretend to the world like it’s a union of love. There’s nothing my mother loves more than a good stage and a role to play.
“Sylvie offered to make me a dress,” Paige says, and takes another deep breath. “God, we’re such liars.”
“Yes, we are. Does that bother you?”
It would surprise me if it did. She’s been working with Ben Wilde for years; she’s seen his playbook. And then she cut him out to gain co-ownership of the family company that she was set to fully inherit one day anyway.
Lying should be easy.
It’s not my favorite thing. But I’ll do whatever I have to. Maison Valmont is mine to lead, and I can’t fail.
“Are your lawyers handling my uncle’s countersuit?” she asks, avoiding my question.
I drain the last of my whiskey. “As much as I hate ruining a perfectly good evening by talking about him, yes, they are. I told you as much.”
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“You can’t,” I say simply. “Just like I can’t trust you.”
Her eyes narrow, and she takes a step closer. Her skirt rides up another inch to show off golden skin. “I trust in your self-interest. That will have to be enough for now. But we need to set some ground rules.”
I pull off my cuff links. It’s too hot, and I need these damn sleeves rolled up. “Rules, darling? I thought you hated rules. You certainly hate punctuality.”
“That’s to wind you up, because you clearly love it. And don’t call me darling.”
“We need to sell this as a love story,” I remind her. The endearment is over-the-top. Pretentious. It’s fallen from my lips mockingly each and every time, and I smile, seeing the pinched annoyance on her face.
“Yes, in public. Are we in public right now? No. And for the record, I’m quite punctual when I’m not trying to offend you.”
“How flattering.”
“The next two weeks, you and I need to be everywhere in public. Shopping together, caught leaving a restaurant, seen on a boat. We want it papped, but it should look casual. Not like we’ve planned it.”
It sounds like my worst nightmare. I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. I choose one of the black cards and put it on the table. “Use this.”
She looks at it like it’s a rattlesnake, ready to strike. “And why would I take that?”
I sigh. “You’re my new wife. Borrow the BMW and make sure you’re seen. Go into Milan or Como and spend money in stores. Talk to locals.”
“You want me to spend your money.” She picks up the card. “Does it have a limit?”
“Why don’t you find out?” I tell her.
She smiles, razor-sharp. “You’re going to regret saying that. Because I know how much you value profit, and I’m going to make this burn.”
“Try me,” I say. “I’m rich enough to handle you.”
Her eyes narrow. It’s a challenge, and I’m sure she’ll rise to it. Let’s go, I think. I have more money than she can spend.
“I’ll win, just so you know.” She tucks the card into her clutch. I catch sight of a chocolate bar in there. Interesting. “Now, if I’m out flaunting my rings and pulling my load, then you need to stop doing whatever it is you did last night.”
“Wilde,” I warn.
She tilts her chin up. “No, I mean it. We’re under a microscope here.
My uncle and the press. Your designer friends.
If you think I care that you have a secret girlfriend or someone you hook up with, I don’t.
But I very much care if that becomes public and threatens to sink the illusion we’re going for here. ”
Secret girlfriend. It’s almost funny, but it’s a logical assumption on her part, and I won’t abuse her of it. Better she thinks I’m sneaking around with a woman than at a fight club.
“You should sleep at night,” I say. “Not keep track of me.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t even try.”
“Fine. Heard,” I say. “But that goes both ways. You’ll be celibate while you’re married to me, too, darling.”
“Stop calling me that,” she says, “and yes, no sleeping around for either of us while we’re selling this marriage. It’s too risky. Are you ready to become best friends with your right hand?”
“I’m left-handed,” I say, “and remember that my bedroom is only a few doors down from yours. Don’t moan too loud, will you? You’re mouthy enough as it is. I bet you’re a screamer.”
Her eyes spark. “Don’t you just hate that you’ll never find out.”
“We’re done for tonight.” I get up from the couch and roll my shoulders back. “Just remember not to flinch when I touch you in public.”
“Don’t flinch if I touch you,” she says. “Although I don’t think that’ll be a problem, given the way you’ve been staring at my legs all night.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not attracted to you.”
“You better not be.” She examines the blood red of her nails. “Because I’m sure as hell not interested in you.”
“Good,” I say. “That would make things awkward.”
“And God forbid they get awkward,” she says. “We’re newly married, complete strangers, and we despise each other. But at least the mood between us isn’t awkward.”
“Funny. You’re a comedian, you know that?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” she says. “You give off more… deeply repressed, superficially charming, and secretly psychotic.”
“And burdened with terrible taste in fake wives,” I say.
There’s a headache brewing at my temples. A terrible night is coming. I won’t be able to outrun the nightmare tonight.
“I’m hosting a group of investors and a few members of the Maison Valmont board for dinner here tomorrow night,” I say. “Come down to dinner and test your acting chops.”
Her eyes flash. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s that she’s ambitious. She doesn’t want this marriage dissolved and she wants her family company to succeed. And I’m learning that she’s not one to back down from a challenge.
I’ve seen hazy video recordings from her days as a college athlete. Her at the tennis baseline, racquet in hand, eyes on the opponent. She was incredible.
“I’ll be there.” Her eyes are locked on mine.
“Be on your best behavior. Do not,” I say, and reach to tap beneath the chin, “make things awkward.”
She tilts her head back, eyes glinting. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll leave the inconvenient attraction to you.”