Chapter 11
PEYTON
“Liam is not taking advantage of my fragile mental state,” I say for the twelfth time, pressing the phone harder against my ear. “I’m not impaired, I’m cornered. And it’s my fault for ignoring the signs. I let Matt gaslight me. I did this to myself.”
“The whole concept of gaslighting is that the victim doesn’t realize they’re being gaslighted.”
“But I did on some level. I used to rehearse conversations in the shower. How to bring things up without triggering him. I should’ve left sooner—”
“None of this is your fault.”
“At least in part it is. Emmy, you tried to tell me. But I kept rolling the ball forward, thinking about everyone who’d already bought flights, booked hotels, cleared their schedules.
I let the logistics swallow me, panicked at the last minute, and made everything so much worse.
I’ve walked myself into a dead end, and the only way through is with a bulldozer.
I’m not letting my parents shoulder the fallout.
I’ve looked at this from every angle. To stand up to lawyers who charge two thousand dollars an hour, I need my own billionaire in my corner. ”
“Your own billionaire?” Emma’s voice drips with disbelief. “Honey, you’re marrying a guy because he has a nice lawyer and a cool best friend. Do you hear yourself?”
“Lila is great.”
“I’m sure she is. But—”
“But nothing,” I interrupt. “If people had to judge me through you, I’d be fine with that standard. You’re amazing. So, I must be too.”
My best friend pouts. I can’t see her, but I know the face she’s making right now. “Are you blowing smoke up my ass hoping I’ll forget that you agreed to marry a stranger less than twenty-four hours after fleeing your previous wedding?”
I wince. “Is it working?”
Emma sighs. It’s a long, defeated exhale, the audio equivalent of a white flag. “I hate this—everything about it. But I also despise Matt and his family, and I love you. If this guy can help you, then… ugh. Fine.”
I stop rubbing my thumb raw against my phone case. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m coming up first thing Saturday,” she threatens. “Make sure you haven’t married a serial killer.”
“You can’t come next weekend.”
“Excuse me? Watch me.”
“You already took two weekends off this month for the wedding and the bachelorette party. You aired pre-recorded episodes both times. The station won’t let you skip another live show so soon.
You’ll get fired. Then we’ll both be unemployed, and you have to keep your house in case this blows up and I need to move in with you. ”
A dramatic groan crackles through the speaker. “Fine. But the first weekend I get free, I’m driving up there and bringing my Taser.”
“Please don’t tase my fake husband.”
“I make no promises. In the meantime, I want daily updates. Texts. Pictures. Proof of life. If you go dark for more than six hours, I’m calling the FBI.”
“Deal.”
Her voice shifts then, the teasing edge shifting into concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t have to do this. Come sleep on my couch. We’ll fight the lawsuit with… I don’t know, crowdfunding and spite. I’ll announce the campaign on the radio—”
“Please don’t; Matt will sue you, too. I’m okay, Emmy, I swear. Or as okay as I can be given everything that’s happened in the last day.”
Another silence stretches between us, this one heavy with things we can’t do over the phone.
I wish she were here, or me there. That I could curl up on her lumpy couch and drink cheap wine and let her tell me what to do.
But Emma is two hours away with a radio show to host and responsibilities, and I’m about to marry a man I met yesterday.
“Call me tonight,” she says. “After dinner with his parents.”
“Okay.”
“And Peyton?”
“Yeah?”
“If anything feels wrong, anything at all, promise me you’ll come home.”
“I will.”
We say I love you and hang up.
The suite goes quiet—too quiet. A silence that amplifies every anxious thought rattling around my skull.
I grab the shopping bags, drop the robe, and step into the bikini bottoms, hooking the top behind my back. The fabric is soft, and the fit surprisingly good.
I pull the clothes on next, turning into a suburban housewife who has strong opinions about HOA regulations.
Only my hair rebels, a riot of dark curls that refuses to be tamed by the hotel’s complimentary comb.
I wrestle it into a messy bun and hope it passes for “carefree chic” rather than “electrocuted poodle.”
My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknob. This is it. The moment I walk out this door, I’m stepping into a borrowed life, with a man I don’t know.
But I have no choice.
The hallway is empty, plushly carpeted, and lined with tasteful landscape paintings. My half-a-number-too-big shoes make no sound as I pad toward the elevator bank and step into a free one. The lobby button glows when I press it.
The car lurches downward, and my stomach churns but it has nothing to do with the brief dip of weightlessness. My palms grow clammy as the floor numbers tick down. By the time I reach the ground level, my heart is hammering so hard I’m certain everyone in the lobby will hear it.
The doors slide open, and the noise of the resort washes over me.
The space is bright and bustling with the Sunday crowds. Families checking out, couples lingering over brunch, bellhops wheeling luggage carts. My attention doesn’t linger on any of them. A single figure matters in the chaos.
Liam is sitting in a plush armchair near the windows, one ankle crossed over his knee, scrolling through his phone with the effortless confidence of someone used to getting everything he wants. He looks completely at ease. Like he owns the place.
Which, I remind myself, he does.
As if sensing my gaze, he stops scrolling. He doesn’t look around or scan the room. He lifts his head and locks eyes with me across the expanse of marble as if an invisible thread were connecting us.
Liam takes me in, from the messy bun to the pastel sweater matching his, down to the tips of my new shoes. The appraisal must last a solid minute before he stands, sliding his phone into his ridiculous golf pants.
He smiles.
It’s dazzling and 100 percent fake.
It isn’t the relieved high-voltage smile he gave me upstairs or the unconscious grin he wore when he talked about Lila. This one is for show. Flashy, charming, and so polished it’s hollow. It projects happiness the way a billboard projects light—bright enough to block whatever sits behind it.
Liam crosses the lobby toward me, his limp hardly noticeable, masked by a confident, rolling stride. He closes the distance, and I don’t know how to react. Whether to wave or run back into the elevator.
“Peyton,” he says, his voice intimately low, carrying enough to be heard by the nearby guests.
Before I can say anything—hello, good afternoon, what’s the plan?—he wraps an arm around my waist. His palm lands flat and warm against the small of my back, fingers spreading possessively over my spine.
My breath hitches. My hands come up to rest against his chest to steady myself. Under the cotton of his V-neck, a solid wall of muscle meets my palms. Whoa.
Why does my body want to melt into him? Why is heat blooming where his palm is touching me?
Liam pulls me closer, and I go. Because what else can I do?
He lifts his free hand and cups my face, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone, feather-light and unbearably tender. He tilts my chin up. His eyes hold mine, darkening with an apology or a warning.
For a terrifying, exhilarating instant, I think he’s about to kiss me.
My heart stops. My lips part. Every nerve ending in my body lights up like a switchboard.
But at the last second, Liam tilts his head, and his mouth bypasses mine entirely, his lips grazing past my cheek to speak directly into my ear.
“Sorry about the PDAs,” he murmurs, each word vibrating against my skin. “But we need to sell the newlywed bliss.”
His breath is warm against my neck. He smells of the body wash I found in the bathtub last night, luxurious and expensive.
“It’ll be over in a minute,” he promises.
I’m not sure whether the information is reassuring or disappointing.
He pulls back, that plastic smile firmly in place, and the absence of his warmth is immediate. Like someone’s turned off a heater.
I blink, untethered, until he takes my hand.
His fingers lace through mine with easy familiarity, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before.
His palm is warm and smooth, the grip sure without being crushing.
The contact should feel awkward, forced.
Instead, it’s oddly welcome. Grounding. An anchor against the storm of my spiraling thoughts.
What is happening to me?
“Ready?” he asks.
For what? He hasn’t explained anything that’s about to happen other than we’re having dinner with his parents tonight.
“Ready,” I lie.
Liam leads me toward the glass doors. We walk in lockstep, his thumb sweeping soothingly over the back of my hand, a mockery of comfort that feels confusingly real.
A black hotel car waits under the portico outside. A driver in a crisp uniform stands ready by the open rear door, expressionless and professional.
Liam ushers me into the backseat, his hand warm at the base of my spine again, and slides in beside me.
But the moment the door closes, everything changes.
He releases my body and shifts to the opposite side of the seat, putting a foot of empty leather between us, going as far as the car’s interior will allow.
He goes back to looking at his phone, as if, now that we no longer have an audience, I don’t matter.
I need to get a grip and push a barb in. Regain control. Don’t leave him the upper hand.
“Do you always travel with a personal driver?” The question comes out stiff. The opposite of the cool, nonchalant vibe I was going for. “Or is this special treatment for your fake wife?”
Liam looks up from his phone. A smirk dances in his eyes—amused rather than offended.
“No, I don’t usually have a driver.” He tilts his head toward the windshield. “I have my motorcycle. But I assumed you’d prefer a car to riding on the back of my bike, given how our first meeting went.” He pauses. “Unless you’d rather try it? I can have the driver pull over.”
The memory of headlights bearing down on me rushes back. The screech of brakes. The smell of burning rubber filling my lungs as I braced for impact.
“No, I’m good,” I blurt.
His smirk widens, knowing he’s won this round. I roll my eyes and turn toward the window, watching the resort’s grand facade recede as we pull away.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“My place.”
The words are matter-of-fact. They sound obvious. Like the answer should have been self-evident.
But it isn’t. Not to me. Because suddenly, reality is beating down on me with the full weight of what I’ve agreed to.
I’m moving in with this man.
Not just agreeing to marry him in some abstract, future sense. Or playing pretend at a dinner party tonight. I’m going to his house. Right now. To live there. Share space with him. Wake up under the same roof as him every day for the next three to five years.
The car becomes too small. The leather seats too confining. The air too thick. The suffocating atmosphere presses against my chest as my fingers curl into fists in my lap.
“Hey.”
Liam’s voice cuts through the panic. I turn to find him watching me, phone forgotten in his hand. The performative polish is gone from his expression, replaced by a gentler, more human concern.
“It’s going to be fine,” he says. “If you don’t approve of the house, you can act like a real wife and change it.
” He shrugs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Redecorate. Rearrange. Nag me about my socks. Fix all my deep-seated personality flaws while you’re at it. I’m told that’s what wives do.”
He leans back against the door, relaxed, with one brow arched.
I know what he’s doing. Liam is provoking me, being an ass on purpose. But fighting with him makes it easier. It gives me something to push against instead of drowning in my anxiety.
“Your view on the meaning of marriage is heartwarming,” I say, my voice dry as dust. “You really know how to make a woman feel special.”
He grins, unrepentant and infuriatingly charming. “I try.”
Liam picks up his phone again, ending the conversation, but the crushing weight on my chest has lifted enough to breathe.
I turn back to the window as the lake flashes blue between the trees.
Somewhere ahead is a house I’ve never seen, belonging to a man I barely know, where I’ll spend the foreseeable future pretending to be someone I’m not.
I’m taking a direct route deeper into a mess I’m not sure I can fix, no matter how many throw pillows I buy.