by Logan Chance
Bride
The Deceit Duet Book One
Logan Chance
Copyright © 2019 by Logan Chance
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For all of you fighting to find a place in this world. You are not alone.
Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.
Mark Twain
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Acknowledgments
GROOM Sneak Peek
Cold Hearted Baller Sneak Peek
About the Author
Also by Logan Chance
Prologue
All my millions and I couldn’t figure out how to send an email after I died. I know you prefer technology, but looks like I get the last say. As always. You’ll find I’ve been busy putting a lock on your empire. The only way to unlock it is with the old ball and chain. Clementine Bright is who I’ve picked for you.
One
Clementine
* * *
Funerals are a lot like weddings. Tears. Flowers. Speeches. Hordes of friends and family gathered in their best clothes to mark the end of a life. It’s an odd comparison to make, the joy of a wedding to the somber pain of death, but it’s eerily true—because marrying Gabriel Prince will be the same as digging a grave and burying myself.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” Gabriel says as black-garbed mourners, shoulders bowed with loss, navigate around the arrogant man towering over me.
This is not how I envisioned things when I used to have silly fantasies of my true love proposing. A marriage proposal probably isn’t supposed to feel like you’re standing before an Armani suited marksman with the fine red crosshairs of a bullseye on your forehead. I’d say that’s the last emotion it should evoke. Then again, most proposals don’t take place at a funeral.
Fathomless dark eyes wait for the acquiescence they believe is coming, because why wouldn’t I accept? Clementine Bright is a minuscule pebble in the behemoth mountain that is Gabriel Prince. It’s almost laughable: after all this time, he still expects to get his way.
And why wouldn’t he? He’s always possessed that charismatic ‘x factor’ in his DNA that makes people rush to do his bidding. It’s a combination of lethal good looks and devastating charm that has ensured, since we were kids, everyone has always said yes to him. Didn’t matter what it was—ice cream in the morning, shorts in the winter, a car before he was legally able to drive—if he wanted it, he got it. And acquiring me as his wife is no doubt just another yes to him.
“Why would I ever marry you?” I question. There are no sweaty palms, no butterflies, no quiver in my voice. I’m willing them away. Gabriel thrives on weakness, so I’ve heard, and I won’t give him any, even if my forced bravado is holding by a tenuous thread.
“We both know why.” His eyes flit with disdain to his grandfather’s casket, laden with bushels of flowers.
“This is really not the time or place,” I remind him in a hushed tone.
A swollen cloud blocks the sun, darkening his face. “I don’t need grieving lessons. I need a bride, apparently, and that will be you.”
In my clearance sale black dress and heels, I feel like a peasant being given my orders by the prince to obey or suffer the consequences. And peasant isn’t far from the truth.
There was a time when I wanted to be a part of Gabriel’s entitled world, but that time is not today. “Well, you’ll have to find one somewhere else. Trolling a funeral for a wife is a new low, even for you.”
“We can discuss the terms later.”
Before I can tell him later will be never, he stalks away to join what’s left of his family in the front row seats. Typical.
I walk closer to the burial site and pick a spot to stand on the fringes of the people who shouldn’t care Joseph Prince is no longer here. It’s not like he did a lot of good with his billions or was even a nice man, for that matter. A woman in front of me sniffles, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and I want to ask her what he did that made him worthy of her tears? I’m not here to give my sympathy to him, despite what people may think. The reason I’m here lies on the opposite side of the cemetery, in the poor man's outskirts, beneath the only thing, besides me, that cries they’re no longer here—a weeping willow tree.
For the next hour, I listen as the robed priest extols the virtues of Joseph Prince, and I wait for him to be struck by lightning for lying. A gap in the crowd leaves a clear shot to where Gabriel sits, dry eyed and stone faced. The breeze tugs at his dark hair, but isn’t bold enough to whip it into a frenzy like mine. Even the wind knows to use caution with him.
Unable to stomach my bitterness any longer, I turn away and walk toward the path that leads to the person who was buried quietly without the ostentatious ceremony taking place for Joseph Prince. Maybe my emotions are still too raw to have compassion for the sheep wah-ing that their patriarch is gone. He was no saint; he was a wolf, and his fangs were the wealth he used to rip people to shreds. He dined on innocence and sipped their blood like wine, and even in death, he’s stalking his prey.
Oak trees cast a net of shadows on the paved path as I walk faster to beat the tears threatening to fall. Who ever decided flowers were the symbol of grief was a genius. The sadness lurking in the petals of fresh flowers adorning the graves is immeasurable. People can’t let go. I can’t, as I trudge through the vast grounds, carrying my goodbye in my pocket, to the plot now laid with fresh grass.
Crouching down, I peel back the corner and slip a birthday card underneath the sod. So many things left unsaid. So many wrongs never righted. They will be, though. If I have to say yes to Gabriel Prince, so be it.
As I sit and stare at the marble marker, time passes without understanding my world will never be the same.
“Clem,” a familiar voice calls out behind me. The prodigal Prince has returned. Should’ve known Ronin would show up today. He wasn’t sitting with the family, so he must’ve been on the fringes like me.
From my spot on the ground, I peer over my shoulder at the diluted version of Gabriel I haven’t seen in years. The brothers have the same dark eyes, but everything else is different. Where Gabriel is control, Ronin is chaos. Slightly mussed hair, scruffy jaw, and a perpetual pout all make the expensive suit he’s wearing seem like he’s playing dress up.
He steps closer and glances down at the marker.
“Fuck,” he mutters, sliding his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “I didn’t know your sister died.”
There’s a lot of things he doesn’t know. No one knows. And I’ll make sure they never find out.
Two
Gabriel
* * *
There isn’t a problem in the world I can’t solve by throwing a little money at it. Embargoes, frivolous lawsuits, and any other problem I’ve ever had. But, this is not one of those
times. I can’t pay off someone to bring Joseph back from the dead and ask him what the hell he’s trying to do, so I glare down at the carved Italian-bone casket with my grandfather’s frail body resting inside and give him one final farewell. One to carry with him into the fiery depths below. Let’s face it, there’s no pearly gates where this man is headed. I’m sure he’ll have Satan ousted in record time.
When I step away, I don’t see Clementine’s frost-filled amber eyes in the crowd. Across the graveyard, I spot the one person I did not expect to see today.
My brother. Ronin.
He strides toward the plots on the East side of the cemetery, and I ignore the sympathetic stares being tossed my way to follow him. My shoulders relax the more distance I put behind me and the puppets whose strings are still attached to my grandfather. Until I reach Ronin, with his lazy smile and wasted dreams, standing next to my soon-to-be bride.
A heated rush of jealousy singes its way through my system. Not because I care that Ronin may be interested in Clementine—no—because he may be interested in something that’s mine. Because she is, in every sense of the word, mine.
She may not realize it yet, but the moment my grandfather served us both our death sentences, it made her the property of Gabriel Prince. And I don’t like Ronin touching what’s mine.
I stalk through the fresh cut grass. “Ronin,” I call out, “I see you decided to take time out of your busy partying schedule to be here today.” His eyes pan over to me, and I never break eye contact as I close the distance. Not even to give a single glance to Clementine, who stands at the grave of her sister, Savannah—my grandfather’s nurse.
“Can we not?” he drawls out with a furrowed brow, as if he actually cares about the girl lying beneath the dirt.
“You really need to invest in some cemetery etiquette lessons,” Clementine adds.
My gaze meets her bloodshot eyes. She’s been crying, and I don’t know what to do with fucking tears. I didn’t know either girl very well growing up, and only learned of Savannah’s death after the fact, but I’m not a complete asshole.
I stop in front of Ronin. He doesn’t extend his hand for me to shake, and good thing, because I wouldn’t.
For years, I’ve watched my grandfather clean up his messes. For years, I’ve handled the Prince companies, while my grandfather coddled my older brother with money, teaching him nothing except the coffers are never empty. He skates through life on my grandfather’s fortune, now my fortune, thinking the hand that feeds him is forever full.
Oh, big brother, how times have changed.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I thought I’d pay my respects.”
“And now you have.” I give a little head nod, hoping Ronin catches my drift and leaves.
“I thought I’d just catch up. Maybe stay in town for a few days.”
“Where will you stay?”
“Grandfather’s estate.”
I barely move a muscle. “It’s now my estate.”
Ronin laughs, easing into his playful mode. The kind he uses when he’s trying to charm the panties off an unsuspecting heiress or socialite. Trouble is, I won’t be biting.
“I’m just here to meet with the lawyers and get my cut.”
Anger ignites a fuse, that travels through my system, threatening to detonate at any minute.
“Your cut?”
Grandfather’s final words as the oxygen tank filled his lungs with air so he could spend a few more minutes here on this god forsaken earth were pretty clear, “Your brother will have nothing now. Take care of him.”
I nodded, promising my grandfather I would do so, even though I never intended to fulfill his request.
“I think you’re misinformed,” I tell him.
The playfulness leaves his brown eyes. “I need to speak with grandfather’s attorney.”
“That you do, and I need to speak to Clementine—alone.”
“No, you really don't,” she says. “Seems like you two have some important issues to deal with. Feel free to do it elsewhere.”
He turns to face her. “I’m sorry. It was great seeing you again.” He kisses her cheek, and then brushes past me. “See you soon, little brother.”
When he’s out of range, I focus all my attention on Clementine. “Ten million dollars.”
“I can’t be bought.” Her voice carries across the graveyard. “I’m not a whore.”
“Fuck, Clementine, keep your voice down.”
“Like I said,” she says in a lower voice, “I can’t be bought.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“Not me.” She raises her chin in defiance, stubborn written all over her makeup-free face.
“Meet me at my home tomorrow at noon.” Maybe if I show her some of the benefits of living with extreme wealth, she’ll change her mind.
“I’m not going to your house.”
She moves past me and hurries across the grounds toward the parking lot as if she can escape this situation. She can’t.
I leave the graveyard and pay my death dues all evening.
I loved the manipulating bastard.
I did.
Not the man we buried today, but the grandfather who took in two orphaned grandsons when their parents died.
I have to hand it to him, even after death, Joseph Prince still wants to rule my life.
Of all the people my grandfather could have picked, why Clementine Bright?
She isn’t royalty. She’s not an heiress. She’s nothing.
She’s stunning, though—a natural beauty—with an air of innocence about her petite frame that my grandfather would have pegged for weakness. Is that why he chose her for me? Part of me thinks he fully underestimated her. He always had a weakness for a pretty face. Beautiful women are a dime a dozen, and I’d never fall for a woman like her. Her attitude is one in need of work.
Major work.
The next afternoon, when Clementine doesn’t show, I drive to the outskirts of town, past overgrown lots, to a small house on Pineloch Street. I smile at the potted plants blooming underneath the light blue awnings on each windowsill.
At least she tries.
I ring the bell.
Clementine opens the door, and shocked doesn’t even begin to cover the expression on her face. “What are you doing here?”
“You wouldn’t come to my home, so I decided to come to yours.”
“How did you even know where I lived?” She steps aside, letting me into her quaint cottage.
“I know a lot of things, Miss Bright.”
A small dark-haired child runs up, with his arms outstretched, yelling, “Mommy. Mommy.”
She shuts the door behind me, and already I feel like I can’t breathe. He plows into Clementine, wrapping his arms around her knees as she bends over to hug him.
This, I didn’t know.
Three
Clementine
* * *
Tiny humans have strange effects on people. From what I’ve experienced, they either morph into baby-talking personal space invaders or stay-away-from-me kidphobes. By the way he’s staring at the barely over three-foot tall child in front of me, Gabriel falls into the latter category. He looks like he just lost his fortune.
I’ll admit, I’m feeling a little smug. “I’m guessing that proposal doesn’t seem like such a good idea now?”
His dark eyes finally pull away from the little boy checking him out to mine. “Is he yours?”
“Yes.”
“How old is he?”
“Four, and his name is Tennyson.”
“Hi,” Tennyson says, holding up four fingers.
“That’s a big name for such a little guy,” Gabriel tells him.
“What’s your name?” Tennyson asks.
“Gabriel.”
“Want some pizza?” Tennyson asks, trusting like only a child can. “Mommy got half-cheese, half-pepperoni.”
That familiar protective instinct I get when Tennyson darts i
nto a crowd, or does something equally heart attack inducing, emerges likes claws ready to draw blood. This seems like a very teachable moment about the dangers of talking to strangers. If there’s any reason to shove Gabriel out the door, it’s Tennyson.
I’ve been very careful, and now, Gabriel’s grandfather is threatening to blow down my house of cards like the big bad wolf he was before he left this earth to terrorize people on the other side.
“No, thanks,” Gabriel turns down the offer, with a semi-grin.
“Come on, let’s get your dinner,” I tell Tennyson before excusing myself.
That’s all the incentive Tennyson requires to dart away with a ‘bye’ to the man watching us with questions swirling across his face. If only I could toss a few slices at Gabriel and make him run away. Blaze is great pizza but it’s not magic pizza. The hallway closes in on me as I hasten my steps to the kitchen.
Tennyson takes a seat at the oak pedestal table, while I open the Blaze pizza box and then plate him two cheese slices.
Once he has everything he needs, I reluctantly tell him, “I’ll be right back.”
“Is Gabriel your friend?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply, trampling the lie under my feet as I move across the tiled floor.
Rather than face the problem in my living room, I make a quick stop into the small bathroom in the hallway, in hopes of composing myself. Inside, I sag against the door. The reflection staring back at me from the mirror above the sink looks anything but composed. My makeup-free face is entering ghost territory.
