"I want to know why," she says.
She wants to know I have good intentions, but I don't.
My motives aren't pure. If anything, they're despicable.
"Family." It's not the whole story, but it's the truth.
"Family?"
I nod. "My siblings." Vengeance for Bash. And the fringe benefits. "They worry." They want me to move on, meet people, leave the fucking house. "I'd like them to stop worrying."
"And they will if I marry you?"
"If we convince them we're in love."
"Oh." She softens. "That's kind of sweet."
I don't correct her.
"What does that entail?"
I can barely get past leaving the house. But I have to. I have to convince everyone—my family, our friends, our colleagues, the man who destroyed my brother—we're in love. "Dinners with friends. An engagement party. Mingling."
"A party, really?"
I nod.
"I can't imagine you at a party."
"A small party."
"An art show maybe."
"Exactly. We show up, stare into each other's eyes, laugh at each other's jokes, convince people we're happy."
She nods. "For how long?"
"A million dollars for the first year. At the end of the year, we can walk away or renew the contract."
"And we really get married?"
"Yes." The paperwork needs to be there. Or someone will discover the truth.
She picks up her wineglass. Traces the stem with her index finger. "What about… consummating the marriage?"
"It's not a part of the arrangement."
Her eyes fill with doubt.
"I'll put it in the contract. I won't touch you unless you ask me to."
Already, my blood is rushing south.
My body is threatening to take over.
No more negotiation, no more terms, no more bullshit.
Her, naked on this table, spread wide, coming on my face.
"If I don't? Will you find someone else?" she asks.
"We're going to marry."
Her eyes meet mine. "And a married man has never cheated."
"Vows mean something to me."
"You'd give up sex?"
"I have a hand."
Her laugh is nervous. "And a wall of erotic art." Her eyes go to her wineglass. "It's not the same."
She's not asking me if I'm capable.
She's asking herself.
"I do want you, Danielle. I want to take you right now." I press my palms into my slacks so I don't touch her. "But that's got nothing to do with my offer."
"If I say no, you'll still ask me to spend the night?"
"No."
"No?"
"I'm not that easy."
Her laugh softens the tension in her jaw. She half-smiles, still nervous, but no longer terrified.
She wants to say yes.
She will. It's only a matter of time.
"Take a few days. Call me when you decide." I have to leave or I will invite her to spend the night.
Trish will berate me for abandoning dinner, for abandoning a woman at dinner, but it's better than the alternative.
I stand and offer my hand.
She looks at me funny, but she still stands and shakes.
After the accident, I spent weeks in a drug-induced haze. Doctor's orders. To control the pain. Keep me from hurting myself.
The drugs were supposed to keep me sedated, so I wouldn't fight my restraints, stall the healing in my bones.
But I needed the numb in my heart too.
I didn't know how to live without Bash.
I didn't know how to live with guilt.
It would have been better if he'd been the one who survived.
He could light up every fucking room in the house.
Damn, this place is as guarded as your heart, huh, Adam?
Then he'd laugh at his own joke. Like he was the funniest asshole who ever lived.
It doesn't get easier.
I miss him more every day.
I feel emptier every day.
After I was healed, physically, doctors weaned me off painkillers. My body ached for weeks. A punishment I deserved, but not enough to lessen the agony in my heart.
I didn't sleep, I barely ate, I thought only of the loss, and how I could make it right.
Only one thing brought me peace—revenge.
Against the man who paid a mechanic to sabotage my car.
Cole Fitzgerald. Another old money asshole. I thought it had to be that, a competitor who wanted to secure his spot as number one, but it wasn't business.
It was personal.
And so I'm hurting that asshole the way he hurt me. By taking something he wants.
It's not right, treating Danielle like a pawn.
But it's the only way I can survive.
If I didn't have this purpose, I would have already joined Bash.
He wouldn't forgive me, but maybe he would understand.
All night, I toss and turn.
When I rise, I follow my routine, the structure that keeps me grounded.
Two laps around the grounds. An hour in the gym. A cold shower. Breakfast in the dining room.
A full cup of black coffee.
Another in my office.
Most days, I work until I'm too tired to think. It's the only way I get a hint of sleep.
I break for lunch and dinner, and sometimes even afternoon tea—Trish insists—but I rarely notice anything except the white sky.
As usual, Trish buzzes me at one.
I consider saying no, asking her to bring lunch into my office, but I know how that conversation goes.