Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Leith
I recline on the chaise longue beside my pool and put on a pair of Wayfarers to shield my eyes from the rare Glasgow sun.
I had a stoner the whole night as I made her scurry to do my bidding.
Each time she delivered a new version of the Insta post, I relished the power I wielded over her.
Dictating the terms of the next version, I felt like a king shrinking her entire universe to pleasing me.
Her neverending hope and determination only made me harder, and I began to think of drawing out her suffering well into our marriage.
Perhaps just as Scheherazade saved herself by telling a new story each night, I’ll allow Iona to live a little longer if she submits to my persecutions.
But of course she has no choice. I’ve got her over a barrel, and I hold all the cards—to mix metaphors.
In a few days I’ll have her on her knees choking on my cock.
Aye, it could be very pleasurable indeed, keeping her as my slave and making her beg me to spare her life for such time as I deem her useful.
I recall the scoop back of her dress that revealed her smooth skin to the curving base of her spine.
Her burgundy-russet locks flaming in the low light of the chandeliers.
Her warm body as I tipped her back in the dance.
The fragrance of heather she emitted, combining notes of lavender, honey, and clean earth.
She’s a pure stoater,?2 and she doesn’t seem to realize it.
Either she’s too wrapped up in her books or she’s put so much into her career she hasn’t had time for men.
All the better for me, since I don’t plan on sharing her with a soul.
First chance I get on the train going south I’ll have her tell me what brought her to my house that day. The more ammunition I have against her, the more easily I can execute my revenge.
My phone pings with a text, and I idly check it.
Galiene: You’d better check your socials. Your fiancée has been busy.
Going into Instagram, I find a post with 6.
4 million views from an account I don’t recognize called Leaning Into Chaos.
The post features me lying bare-chested in bed looking with alarm at the camera, my arm under a woman whose face isn’t visible.
She’s just a mess of sable curls. Even a cursory glance tells me from my neck down is Photoshopped.
The caption reads, Woke up like this—after my stag do.
Adrenaline courses through my veins as I zero in on the comment that’s drawn the most replies—Iona’s: Stag do means marry don’t. I’ll never tie the knot with a man who’s not honest.
Hundreds of replies flood her comment. Half are fake-sympathetic, and the other half tell her she’s insane for looking a gift horse in the mouth. Gift stallion, more like, one comments.
Uninterested in their outcry, I debate whether to tackle the problem at its source or attack it in a roundabout way.
Clearly Leaning Into Chaos is an account Iona set up for the purposes of getting even with me.
It has only two posts so far, and the picture is accompanied by hashtags that harness the algorithm to maximal effect—#wokeuplikethis, #cheatingbastard, #stagdo, and so forth.
But she’s aiming at higher targets than just my reputation. She wants out of this marriage, and she’s trying to use public opinion to give her an exit.
I take a swig of my beer, my lips quirking in a smug smile. “Sorry, sweetheart. It isn’t happening.”
Ringing her directly, I lean back and cross my legs on the lounger. This’ll be very interesting.
She answers on the fourth ring. “What can you have to say?”
“For starters, you belong on my lap, your arse in the air as I spank you pink.”
I can hear the flush and confusion in her voice. “Wh-what?”
“I know what you’ve done, and I don’t plan to go easy on you, Flame.”
A long pause ensues, in which she debates whether to keep up the farce. “I don’t know what you’re t?—”
“Careful. Insulting my intelligence earns you a dozen lashes of the belt,” I croon, salivating at the prospect of strapping her peaches-and-cream backside.
“We’re not m-marrying,” she stammers. “I saw?—”
“Saw, my arse. You fabricated, and that’s where you miscalculated. Because I’ll turn all this to my advantage. Already most users sympathize with me. You’ll issue a statement that you were in on the prank, which will boost my following.”
She bridles. “That’ll kill my following!”
“You should’ve thought of that before pulling this stunt. By the way, who Photoshopped me?” Zooming in on the picture, I’m impressed by the lipstick stains on my face and the perfect skin match between my torso and face.
“My friend Zuso.” She comes clean at last.
“Male?” I grill.
“Gay.”
“Zuso will still want to keep his balls intact. The two of you will issue the statement in the next hour. You’ll declare that you’d never dream of calling off our engagement.
” I drain my beer, setting the bottle on the table beside me.
At this point I don’t so much care about my reputation as disciplining Iona.
“Your defiance is cute, Flame, but you can’t seriously have thought you’d get away with it. ”
“I was—am—mad. What you did to me last night was unforgivable.”
“That’s just the beginning. If I wanted to, I could ruin your whole career with the snap of my fingers.” My dick twitches in my dookers.?3 “You’d do well to toe the line from now on, sweetheart.”
“I’ll never bow to you,” she pushes back.
I stifle a yawn. “If the statement hasn’t been made in an hour, I’ll wipe your identity and replace your accounts with fake ones. You can kiss your book influencer career goodbye.”
I’d love to have her here, gagged and handcuffed, to manhandle into the wee hours. But as things stand, I make do with our distance.
A sharp gasp sounds. “Ye’re a bass.”?4
“And you’re my wife-to-be. As such, you’ll obey my every command. Am I clear?”
“Aye,” she chokes out.
“Goodnight, Flame.” I ring off, tossing the phone aside.
Now the only thing that can keep my boner down is a dip in the pool. I unfold myself from the chaise longue and pad to the pool’s edge.
Three days. That’s all she has before I take her in hand.
Aaron, I’ll do right by you, mate. She put you through four years of hell and caused your death.
It’s only right I should return the favor.
* * *
Iona
Skye and I cruise about the City Center on our bikes on Thursday afternoon, looking for a sci-fi-themed coffee shop that apparently just opened and is already wildly popular with younger crowds.
Skye pulls alongside me in the street. “I saw your statement yesterday on Insta. It must’ve been hard to write that.”
I ended up apologizing to everyone for the prank and saying Leith hadn’t actually had a stag do, that I’d made the whole thing up as a joke to send him off from bachelorhood.
As I’d predicted, I lost several thousand followers, among whom some booklovers.
Then, in a strange second-wave reaction, I gained a few thousand new followers, many of them praising me as gallus?5 and hilarious.
Apparently I’ve gone from bookstagrammer to comedian.
Since I can’t tell my sister my back was up against the wall, I fib. “I had my fun. It was time to own up to my mischief. I always knew the joke would cost me.”
I hate to admit it, but Leith was right. I was crazy to think I could get away with this last-ditch attempt to escape our wedding. Though I banked on him jealously guarding his reputation, his could stand to take a beating much more than mine could. My plot backfired on me.
Nothing I could do could change the fact that he holds all the cards.
Suddenly I spot him through the floor-to-ceiling window of a café, his back to me.
Seated kitty corner from him, her long fingers wrapped around his forearm, is a stunning brunette with the most perfect cheekbones I’ve ever seen.
As she laughs at something he’s said, her gaze dips to his lips and she gives his arm a squeeze.
A tight fist of jealousy grips my chest, and I fight to breathe. She’s exquisite, and he’s not pulling away. Their body language says they’ve known each other awhile and are extremely comfortable in each other’s company.
Slowing the bike, I brake and watch their interaction.
“What is it?” Skye asks, stopping in front of me and following my line of sight. “Oh. Who’s she?”
“I don’t know.” But I dislike her intensely. She’s tall, rangy, poised, and flawless.
Again she tips her head back in a laugh, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth and a delicate throat.
Skye lays a hand on my arm. “You need to ask him, babes. Don’t assume anything.”
Self-pity carves an aching hollow space in my belly. Though I don’t trust him not to lie, I can’t tell Skye as much. “We’ll see.”
Truth be told, I’m afraid of going into that café. Sweaty from my bike ride and wearing workout clothes, I’ll look a tube in front of Miss Universe. And I don’t want to tip my hand to Leith that I care—least of all if my suspicions prove unfounded.
We find the sci-fi café, buy themed drinks, and talk about the wedding on Saturday, but the whole time I’m absorbed with thoughts of the model and her closeness to Leith.
If I discover they’re an item, I’ll use their affair to break free of this marriage.
In the meantime, the images of Leith and Sexy Siren replay in my brain, corroding my insides.
* * *
The day of the wedding dawns fair and glorious.
I know because I didn’t sleep the night before.
I never did get up the courage to ask Leith about the woman, mostly because I didn’t want him to lie to me.
But my pride also forbade it, since I didn’t want to be a cliché or suggest I could bore him enough to drive him to seek solace elsewhere.
Skye, who slept in the other bedroom, knocks on my door at 7, hopping from foot to foot.
“I need to feed you. This is going to be a long day, and you may not have time for food. But you know what Maw always says?—”