Chapter 3 #2
Javier squeezes my shoulder as he passes by to leave my apartment, and while I should feel at ease knowing I don’t have to force him out, my mind is reeling.
The only thing my brain keeps echoing, like the incessant sound of a smoke alarm that needs a new battery, is that I need to get a divorce.
I need to get a divorce as soon as possible.
How the hell can I actually be married?
I need a divorce.
And in order to get one, I’m going to need a divorce attorney.
My heart hammers in my chest as I stare down at the contact profile in my phone for Luciano. I’m teetering on the cusp of calling him, but a bigger part of me would rather pull up a web browser to search how to fake my own death and disappear into thin air.
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours replaying the conversation with Javier over and over in my mind, alongside all the memories I have from that night in Paris, which aren’t many.
To say I’m confused is an understatement. Wouldn’t I know if I’d gotten married? Surely there would have been some sort of indication that we had. A clue. A damn photograph?
Letting the phone slide from my hand and onto the couch, I lean back against the plush backing and tilt my head against it, closing my eyes as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I need to think. Need to strain my mind for anything that will jog my memory or reassure me there’s no way this is happening. It can’t be true.
White spots burst behind my closed eyes as I squeeze them together, blips of that night flickering through my mind, coming in and out in a blur that’s difficult to decipher.
It’s like trying to watch the scary part of the movie when your mother is covering your eyes so you can’t see, but you still can get a sense of what’s happening through her fingers.
A gasp tears through me as the morning after drifts through my thoughts and I remember the white bouquet on the table by the window and the empty bottles of champagne.
Surely, that's not evidence of our nuptials.
We can’t be married. There’s no way.
But as tears sting my eyes, the sinking feeling of reality settles into my bones and I realize that’s more than enough proof.
We were both blacked-out drunk—at least I know I was—and all I have to go off is his word, the piece of paper he’s presented to me, and the memory of two tangible items that scream wedding.
Picking up my phone again, I enter my passcode and stare at Luciano’s name before dragging my eyes to the coffee table where Javier’s room key sits on top of the rich mahogany.
An unsteady breath leaves my lungs before I bite the edge of my lip and contemplate my next course of action.
My hands tremble, my phone in one hand as I reach for the keycard with the other, trusting my gut to make the right decision.
When I arrive at The Manhattan Grand twenty minutes later, nausea roils low in my stomach as the elevator carries me to the fifteenth floor. The shake in my hands from earlier still hasn’t left, and I feel my palms sweat beneath the tight grasp I have on my clutch purse.
I’ve never doubted myself in a decision as much as I currently am. While every natural instinct tells me to hear Javier out, my fight-or-flight tells me to run. Somewhere within me there’s a voice screaming it’s not true, when the reality is, I have no freaking idea.
But maybe he does.
At this point, hearing him out seems like the only option.
When the elevator doors open, I ready myself with a deep breath before stepping onto Javier’s floor and follow the signs to room fifteen-thirty-six, grateful that the floors are carpeted and muffle the sound of my heels.
There’s an undeniable lump in my throat as I reach his room, but before I can talk myself out of it—because trust me, the only thing I want to do is talk myself out of it—I rap my knuckles on his door in three quick knocks.
He answers the door within seconds, surprise coating his features the moment our eyes collide.
“You came.”
I nod. “I did.”
“Please, come in.” Javier opens the door further so I can walk through, then shuts it behind me.
Stepping further into his suite, I cross my arms over my chest as I turn to face him. “How the hell did we get married and I don’t remember it?” My voice is strained, which surprises me. I can’t even pretend to mask the unease.
The lights are low, only the lamp on the bedside table illuminating the space, casting an eerie glow in the room.
Not answering, he takes a seat at the small table by the window.
The curtains are open, highlighting the beautiful view he has over the city, the bright lights shimmering as the skyline darkens.
“We had a lot to drink,” he states plainly, as if he’s already explained this to me a thousand times. “If it comforts you, even I do not remember. Felipe helped me put the pieces together after I came across the acte de mariage. It was nearly under the sofa in the hotel room.”
Bringing my fingers to my temples, I rub the impending headache away. How the hell did we have time to get a marriage certificate?
“I know what I proposed was a lot to take in, but I only need your assistance for a short time. I wouldn’t be asking you for such a large favor if it wasn’t important.”
My eyes snap to his and I can’t help the anger that seethes within me, instantly heating my blood.
“You’re holding a divorce over my head, Javier.
Somehow, we made a mistake that night. All I want is for it to go away, and instead of agreeing, you’re trying to convince me to stay married to you so you can parade me in front of your family. How is that fair?”
“Trust me, if I could find a way out of this, I would. You coming to Spain is the only option. I need you, Raina. My family will never forgive me if they find out the truth about us.”
“The truth that we had one stupidly drunk night together? I’m a stranger to you, Javier. You’re a stranger to me.”
“A stranger to whom you are married, and now I’m asking you—begging you—to pretend to be my wife. Only for a short time.”
“I can’t,” I stress, tossing my hands into the air as I begin to pace in his hotel room. My thoughts are running away with me so fast, I struggle to maintain a coherent thought. Once again, I’m fighting back tears, which infuriates me. This man doesn’t deserve my tears.
“Why not?” He runs a frustrated hand through his dark hair, tousling it.
“I have a life here, Javier. Responsibilities.”
I can’t believe I’m arguing with this man right now.
The look on his face tells me he’s about to say more, and I know I need to be more convincing as to why I can’t.
The Raina he met in Paris was an intern without a care in the world.
Free to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whomever she wanted.
But that isn’t me anymore. Not to the degree he experienced.
“I’m…” Think quickly, Raina. Time is of the essence. “I’m engaged.”
You. Fucking. Fool.
“Engaged?” Javier practically roars. “How can you be engaged when you are married to me?”
An exasperated squeal leaves my lips. Something between a scream and a whimper. “I didn’t know I was married to you, Javier. How would I have known that? You’ve hidden that information from me up until now.”
“Well, tell him you have a duty to fulf?—”
“I don’t owe you anything!” I scream. “You and I had one drunken night in a sparkling city, where I assume we fucked each other's brains out, and apparently made some idiotic agreement that ended in a marriage.”
Javier swipes his palm down his face, looking as exasperated as I feel. “You felt what I felt that night. I know you did.”
My heart leaps with guilt at the sudden change in his tone and demeanor.
The look of loneliness in his eyes is one I recognize, but I can’t stand here and lie to him, pretend like I feel something, because I don’t.
Even though his desolation matches my own.
But I don't want to hurt him, either. “What we felt that night was an explosive combination of lust and intoxication. It was never going to be more than one crazy night in Paris.” I shake my head. “I can’t come with you back to Spain. My life is here.” An intrusive somersault attacks my stomach. “I’m in love, and I have a fiancé.”
Javier assesses me with scrutiny. He’s looking for the crack in my story—the fault line.
He won’t find it. I’ve been lying to men since I was old enough to speak. Hazards of the Upper East Side.
“Then where is your ring?”
“At the jeweler being resized,” I volley immediately. “Look, I’m sorry that I can’t help you, but please, let’s just make this easy for the both of us and get a quickie divorce. You can go back home and find a woman who loves you, Javier. She can be your wife. Not me.”
“No.” His accent weaves around the simple word with an air of finality. It leaves no room for negotiation, nor does the dark look in his eye.
Taking a step forward, he grabs my wrist and hurls my body toward him, catching my arms as I stumble into his chest. Bringing his hand to my face, he trails the back of his fingers down my cheek before using them to tilt my chin upward.
It’s uncomfortably intimate. I don’t want this man.
I have no interest in his lips on mine, yet I can’t bring myself to step out of his arms.
His voice is soft, pleading, yet still commanding at hardly a whisper.
“You will join me in Spain and play the role of my beautiful, doting American wife. As far as my family is concerned, you have stayed abroad because you had family, and work, obligations to tie up prior to moving to my country. Once you join me for my father’s burial and the ceremony in which I am bestowed his title, then I will grant you the divorce you seek. ”
I can feel my resolve cracking. There’s truly no reason for me to not do this for him. Am I just being selfish? What’s a couple of quick weeks in Spain?
Deciding maybe I should just think about it, I ask, “When is the service?”
“In two weeks' time.”
My eyes narrow at him. “And the succession?”
“Four months from now.”
Rearing back, my head shakes before I’ve fully processed the words. “No.”
I can’t put on this ruse for almost five months. I can’t stay in Spain for that long, and I certainly won’t upend my life to travel back and forth at his beck and call.
“You must,” he presses.
“I have no obligation to you, Javier,” I repeat, again, since clearly he isn’t hearing me.
“You are my wife!” Frustration raises his voice, then he drags his hand down his face again and evens his temper. Smart man, realizing his macho caveman bullshit won’t get him far.
“Why do you want me to be your wife? I’m sure you could have any woman you want in Spain, so why the hell have you traveled all this way to the big shiny fucking apple to harass me about being your rent-a-bride?”
He begins to pace, muttering to himself in his native tongue, and I don’t understand a damn word he’s saying. Then, a few minutes later, he comes to a stop in front of me, opening his mouth, closing it, then opening it again, as though he’s hesitant to tell me the truth.
“Because the last thing I want is to be married, Raina.
I loathe the idea of marriage. I plan to spend my days warming the beds of whomever I please, and I will not be on someone else's timeline as to if, when, or whether I take a spouse. This marriage, our paper marriage, means nothing to me. You, while a lovely woman who is a goddess in bed?—”
“Thank you.”
“—you’re quite welcome. But you mean nothing to me. I assure you that you being my wife only means something to my family and my succession of title. That is it. When I have gained what I seek, you will get your divorce. You have my word.”
But how can I trust that his word is worth a damn?
“I’ll think about it,” I manage to say through the dryness in my throat, and I start to walk toward the door. I’m done. I’ve reached my mental capacity and I need air. “That’s all I can offer right now. Let me speak with my fiancé and make a decision.”
Picking up on my cues, he meets me at the door and opens it.
“I will need an answer soon, Raina. Please consider helping me.” The pleading look in his eye almost has me agreeing on the spot, but I force myself to hold my ground.
My gut is telling me to stay alert, and I learned at a young age to trust my gut.
I squeeze his arm as I walk past him, not even bothering to muster a smile. Why fake it? I’m not happy about this situation I’ve found myself in. “I’ll let you know.”
Then I leave, and it feels like I can’t breathe again until I’m in the back of a cab, watching the city pass by in a blur.