I was going to be sick.
No wonder he didn’t want Izzy to know it was me, not Julian. He’d had a plan all along, hadn’t he? Get us married and give the world a huge distraction. I knew how much he would probably gain financially from a single wedding, how much free press his company would get after one of the biggest buyouts in history. And not just free press. He would direct the media’s attention to the Tennyson good fortune. A buyout, a miraculous healing, and the wedding of the year? All within a few weeks? It was too good to be true, like a Hollywood drama with requisite happy ending. There would be countless interviews, media coverage to salivate over, not to mention endorsement deals. And he’d be laughing all the way to the bank while waving at the adoring public.
He wasn’t just using Julian’s accident as an excuse, he was using it as a way to make money.
Sick bastard.
Dad gave me a blank stare and then smiled like he knew I was ready to jump across the coffee table but couldn’t.
One week.
I was getting married in one week.
Without my mother.
To someone who didn’t belong to me.
I wasn’t stupid.
I’d signed a contract that said I would take on everything about Julian from his mannerisms to his belongings.
According to that contract . . . I was Julian Tennyson.
And Julian Tennyson was engaged.
I needed air.
I stood, noticed my father’s thunderous expression, and quickly sat back down and lazily wrapped an arm around Izzy. “Dad, you know that’s not very fair to Izzy. She wanted to plan her own wedding and now everything’s getting done without her input. She doesn’t even get to shop for a dress.”
She might already have a dress, but I had no idea and could blame the accident for my bad memory.
“She’ll wear what’s chosen for her by the team. They have a few designers lined up for the rehearsal dinner, ceremony, and of course the reception,” Marla said with glee. “They’ll be outfitting the entire family.”
“Great,” I said through clenched teeth. “What do you say, Izzy?”
Please let this be the time where she decides to stand up to my father or starts crying, reacting, doing anything that saves us from this fate. Because pretending, kissing her hand, flirting was one thing.
A wedding was something else entirely, wasn’t it?
Julian would hate me.
No, he wouldn’t just hate me.
He would never speak to me again. What progress I might have made with him by filling in while he healed would be demolished. Because I knew if I was in his position and I woke up to find that my twin had not only touched what was mine but had sex with her or even saw her naked—blind rage filled my line of vision.
And I hated myself, because that’s exactly what I would be doing. What groom doesn’t have sex with his bride? Could I even excuse myself out of that with a headache?
Shit.
Tears filled her eyes. She quickly wiped under her right eye and smiled a forced smile that made me want to strangle everyone in that room. “It sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”
“We really have,” my father responded swiftly. It was a double meaning; he really had thought of everything, hadn’t he?
I stood quickly. “Can I discuss something with you, Dad? In private?”
“Of course!” Damn, he was a good actor. I knew better than most how much he loathed me. Probably because I was everything Julian wasn’t. Good, let him hate me for being taller, thicker, for not needing his approval or wanting it.
“Isobel, you and Marla probably have a lot to talk about. Why don’t you step into the conference room and go over a few details? I’ll have some champagne sent in.”
Damn it, at least she got champagne out of this, while I was getting nothing but hives and severe pain in my right side where my ribs had snapped.
The women left.
The doors closed.
I turned on him. “You sick son of a bitch!”
“Is that any way to talk to your father, Julian?” He grinned menacingly and moved to sit behind his massive desk, which was placed in front of giant windows that overlooked the financial district.
The Tennyson family was focused on one thing and one thing alone: money.
And I was helping him rule.
I looked into his eyes, thinking for a second that for sure they would roll back while horns popped through the skin on his forehead. Instead, his eyes were green just like mine, his obviously dyed jet-black hair was slicked back, and what wrinkles he had lining his face were in obvious defiance against the Botox he probably stuck into them on a biweekly basis. His all-black suit was pulled tight around his gut, and his heavily ringed fingers clasped behind his back like he didn’t have a care in the world.