30. Stand-Ins & Sworn Secrets
Chapter thirty
Stand-Ins & Sworn Secrets
Marlow
I’m not proud of it, but as Declan leaves my office, completely unaware that I’m seconds from starring in the most creative episode of the true crime show, Wives with Knives, I pull a childish face behind his back and mumble under my breath, “Can’t wait to welcome you home, wife,” in a teasing, whiny voice.
Then, I send the DEFCON-1 emergency group text.
Me: Stand-ins! Assemble! My office. Now.
Eslin is the first to respond.
Stand-in BFFs: We were waiting in Tatum’s office anyway. Be there in two.
I follow up with a more urgent request.
Me: Bring the tequila Tatum keeps hidden in her cabinet.
Tatum doesn’t miss a beat.
Stand-in BFFs: Oh, she’s summoning the good stuff? This is serious. On the way, babes.
I don’t know what I’d do without Eslin and Tatum right now.
I went from being the girl everyone invited to be a bridesmaid because I came with my daddy’s yacht and a flawless toast, to having two real friends who know all my darkest secrets.
Mostly because marrying a stranger in Vegas tops the list of wildest things I’ve ever done.
College sophomore year not included.
Since Tatum joined the team, I’ve noticed Eslin relax more around both of us.
Maybe it’s because Tatum’s biracial, and Eslin doesn’t feel like my token friend anymore.
With Tatum in the mix, she sees I’m not collecting friendships like accessories—I just need people I can be real with.
Women I can vent to, cry with, and maybe drink too much tequila around when my life inevitably blows up.
Two minutes later—right on cue—my stand-ins file into my office like a well-trained crisis response team. Tatum makes a beeline for the bar cart, already pulling down glasses. I snatch the tequila bottle from her hand and take a long, unapologetic swig.
“Oh! Okay then,” she says, carefully lowering herself onto the couch like she knows this is going to be good.
Eslin settles in beside her, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So, I’m guessing your little chat with your husband didn’t go well?”
“Nuh uh,” Tatum cuts in. “That man said he was about to do unholy things to you. Did he at least follow through?”
I groan and flop dramatically into my chair. “So, here’s what happened—”
“That’s Black girl code for, what had happened was,” Eslin mutters, and we all burst out laughing, the tension breaking just enough for me to breathe again.
Once we settle down, I take another sip and nod toward Eslin. “To answer your question, no. The talk didn’t go well.”
“But did he do the unholy things?” Tatum presses, wiggling her eyebrows like this is a rom-com and I’m the lead in denial.
“God, no. Well…sort of?”
Eslin extends her shot glass toward me with authority. “Pour. Then speak. Slowly.”
I refill hers, hand the bottle to Tatum, and then I spill everything. Every filthy, inappropriate detail—from the kiss, to the threat of being sued by a TV network, all the way down to the way he licked his fingers like he was savoring me.
When I finish, there's a moment of stunned silence.
“So, you’re staying married now?” Tatum finally says, blinking like I just told her I joined a cult.
I bury my face in my hands. “Ugh. Yes. For now, I guess? Or at least until I can figure a different way out of this.”
“Why?! I thought you were signing the papers tomorrow!” Eslin says, half laughing, half horrified.
I lift my head and mutter, “So did I. But apparently, I was too drunk to remember the fine print from that night—get the marriage annulled within a certain grace period or you agree to participate in the finale episode. Try to call it off after the fact and you get sued.”
“Are you sure you can’t talk to your dad or any of his friends to help get you out of this? You’re surrounded by billionaires, for Christ’s sake!”
“No!” I blurt out, more panicked than I mean to sound.
“They can’t know. Don’t you get it? I promised all of them I could handle this job without drama.
Without bringing any personal mess to the team.
And now I’m married to Declan after a drunken night in Vegas.
That is the mess. I just need to fix it before they find out. ”
“Oh damn, girl, that’s awful!” Eslin winces.
Tatum lifts a finger. “Umm...awful for who? Did you see the way that man’s eyes burn for her?” she says, turning to Eslin before shifting her gaze to me. “Girl, he is going to rearrange your entire reproductive system and you better let him.”
“Ew! Tatum!” I groan. “That’s not the point of any of this.”
“Says who?” she counters, deadpan.
“Me! The person trying not to destroy both our reputations while cohabiting and not screwing up his shot at a million dollars.”
Eslin leans forward, confused. “Wait—why living together?”
“Because the show does random check-ins and Declan, in all his genius, announced we’d be moving in together so they could start filming from there.”
Tatum clasps her hands together like she’s just been gifted a rom-com plot. “I love this for you. Call me delusional, but what if all of this is happening for a reason?”
I snatch the bottle of tequila and take another swig straight from the neck. “And what would that reason be?”
Eslin reaches over, softening her voice. “Maybe to show you something you’ve never let yourself have before. And maybe you could be something for him, too.”
I narrow my eyes. “Too? Did he say something?”
She freezes for a beat—professionalism kicking in—but doesn’t take the bait.
“I’m just saying, maybe this isn’t a total mistake,” she shrugs.
I scoff. “Right. He did it on purpose for a million dollars.”
“It’s not nothing,” Eslin says gently. “Especially considering where he comes from.”
That makes me pause. “And how exactly do you know where he comes from?”
Her head snaps toward me. “First of all, that’s literally Google-level intel. Second and third—how the hell have you not looked up the man you accidentally married?”
“Because I was too busy not getting attached. I didn’t want to know anything that would make me like him—or worse—want him!”
“Well,” Tatum says with a wicked grin, “sounds like that plan is going great. There’s no way you’re resisting that man once you move in.”
I stand tall, arms crossed. “I absolutely can. You clearly don’t know who you’re dealing with. I am the queen of stubborn. Headstrong is my love language.”
Tatum cackles. “Yeah, and I have a strong feeling you’re about to redefine the word headstrong within forty-eight hours.”
“Wanna bet?” I challenge, chin high.
“Oh, I’ll take a piece of that,” Eslin jumps in. “I got a hundred on Marlow losing the battle, and the panties, before day two.”
“Count me in,” Tatum adds, raising her glass.
I glare, then burp like a lady. “Game. On.”
Declan
I love Sunday mornings. The birds are chirping, coffee’s brewing, and the steady rhythm of movers hauling boxes echoes down the hall.
Not just any boxes—my wife’s things. Into my house.
I paid the movers extra to make sure they came early, early enough that her father wouldn’t notice, and used the service entrance so no one else in the building could catch on.
Every precaution, every penny, worth it.
Because today, finally, my wife is coming home.
I’m on my third cup of espresso, standing at the edge of the kitchen counter as they carry Marlow’s designer luggage through the front door.
I’ve even commissioned one of the guest bedrooms to be converted into a full walk-in closet.
Not because she asked, but because I’ve seen her off-duty wardrobe.
The heels, the tailored suits, the polished accessories.
She looks like she just stepped off a runway in Milan half the time.
And I’ve dated enough high-fashion women to know they don’t travel light.
If this is going to work—this illusion, this stunt, this beautiful disaster—we’re going to need a truce. And that starts with making room for my wife. I don’t want her feeling like a guest or an accessory to my life—even if this whole thing has to stay secret. Even if she’d rather be anywhere else.
Her SUV pulls into the driveway like a warning shot. I don’t move. Just sip my espresso and listen to the quiet parts of the morning slip away.
She steps out, and the cup nearly slips from my grip.
She’s wearing one of those damn workout sets she always wears and this one might be the death of me.
Cream-colored, soft and barely there, the fabric clings like it’s in love with her.
The pants are sheer on the sides, hugging every curve like they were custom-inked onto her body.
The matching jacket is cropped and open just enough to expose a sliver of skin and cleavage.
I grip the counter instead of the cup.
Dio mi aiuti.
I live in Cinnamon Hills, an exclusive gated community tucked inside Cinnamon Grove—a neighborhood where every home looks like it belongs on the cover of a luxury architecture magazine.
Clean white exteriors, glass-paneled facades, minimalist landscaping, sharp lines, and matte black finishes.
The kind of place where electric vehicles charge quietly in the driveway and you’re more likely to run into a pro athlete or tech founder than a neighbor walking their dog.
When I first moved here, I got lucky and ended up renting a house from Damond Battles, an NBA star who’d just been traded to Phoenix.
He was supposed to be gone already, but I arrived in Atlanta earlier than expected and we overlapped.
I had to stay in the house while he packed up to leave for his new home.
I figured it’d be awkward, two strangers passing in the halls.
But instead, we hit it off. He introduced me to a few of his teammates, helped me settle in, even gave me the inside tips on the best gyms and lowkey restaurants in town where fans wouldn’t bother me.
When I mentioned I wanted to turn one of the guest rooms into a walk-in closet for my wife, Damond laughed so hard he nearly dropped his protein shake, then immediately demanded the full story.
Once I gave him the abridged version (minus all the emotional landmines), he shook his head, grinned, and said, “You’re already fucked, man.
” Then he sent over the best contractor in the city, told me to spare no expense, and made sure the job got done right.
Now even members of the NBA are invested in my marriage’s success.
She’s gorgeous, my wife. And if she weren’t so damn stylish, I’m convinced she’d be in full mourning attire with head-to-toe black and dramatic sunglasses, like she’s arrived for a funeral. Most likely mine.
“Welcome home, my love,” I say with a slow smirk, leaning against the doorframe like I’ve been waiting for this moment all morning.
Maybe my whole life.
She doesn’t even blink. Just breezes right past me with two duffle bags slung over her shoulder like weapons.
“Where am I sleeping?”
“No hello kiss?” I toss back, trying to keep it light.
She stops long enough to fix me with a sharp glare. Jesus. It felt like it was straight from the playbook of my Nonna—deadly, silent and absolutely final.
“Fine. No kiss,” I mutter under my breath. “Follow me.”
I sigh and push off the doorframe, letting the smug grin drop as I lead her through the house.
The floors are polished concrete, sleek and cool under our feet, the high ceilings giving the space a museum or gallery-like quiet.
Sunlight pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off white walls and beautiful art pieces Marlow doesn’t even glance at.
We turn a corner and head down the private hallway toward the guest wing. “This will be your room,” I say, opening a set of double doors.
The space is massive. Modern. Elegant. A king-sized platform bed with a low-profile headboard, layered in crisp white linens and soft charcoal throws.
Clean-lined nightstands with built-in wireless charging.
A minimalist glass desk sits beneath a wall-mounted smart screen.
On the far side, sleek black doors open to a walk-in closet—unfinished, waiting for her touch—and a spa-like en suite bathroom with slate tiles, a soaking tub, and rainfall shower.
“You can change anything you want,” I say, stepping aside to let her walk in. “Paint, furniture, layout—whatever makes you feel more at home.”
She drops the duffles with a thud. Doesn’t even look around. “I won’t be here long enough to redecorate.”
I nod slowly. “Still trying to figure out your escape plan?”
“Absolutely,” she mutters, brushing past me again, this time toward the closet. “This isn’t my home. It’s just another mess I have to clean up.”
Her fire doesn’t scare me. She thinks it’s a shield, that all this edge and attitude will keep me at arm’s length. But all it does is draw me in closer. I’m a heat-seeking missile, and she’s both the target and the trigger—my detonator, my ruin.
“Well, Americana,” I say, my voice low, smooth. “I was hoping to begin our mess amicably. Perhaps by sharing dinner tonight?”
“I can’t,” she says, too fast.
I frown. “Don’t tell me you have a date on our first night living together.”
“It’s a standing dinner. With my father. Every Sunday.”
The sting hits deeper than I expect. I used to cook Sunday dinners with Nonna and Niko while my father worked late shifts. I didn’t realize how much I missed the ritual of it until just now when I was told I couldn’t even be in the room.
“I see. And since we’re a secret—”
“Right. You understand, don’t you?” she says, but there’s no question in it.
Before I can answer, she steps forward, crowding into my space, forcing me backward until I’m just outside her door. She doesn't slam it, just closes it gently, but with finality.
“It’s fine,” I say sweetly. “I’ll make dessert.”