by Nikki Chase
But what can I say? I was young and stupid. I thought I just had to try my best and we’d be the perfect little family. I thought I had to get married eventually anyway, so why not now?
It was dumb, of course. But it took me too long to realize just how dumb it was.
“Miss Jones, would you please repeat my words?” asks the wedding officiant.
I watch, as if hypnotized, as Megan parts her full lips and say her vows to me. She looks at me from underneath her lush lashes, her blue eyes brilliant under the bright sunlight that’s streaming in through the big glass wall.
“I call upon everyone present here to witness that I, Megan Jones, take you, Ethan Hunter, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward. I vow to love you and care for you for as long as we both shall live.”
Although I know she’s lying, like I just did, I can’t help but feel unfamiliar tingles in my heart. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of her true feelings in those pools of blue on her face. She’s worried—maybe even scared.
Unlike me, she’s young and not yet jaded by the reality of marriage as an institution. Like many other girls her age, she may even have fantasies about her wedding day, with her wearing a white gown and surrounded by her loved ones.
This whole time, I’ve been thinking of this as a mutually beneficial arrangement, seeing as Megan will receive a lot more money than she could ever dream to make as my personal assistant.
But suddenly, I feel bad for her. Maybe I’m taking something important away from her. Maybe I’m robbing her of the opportunity to have a real first wedding with a man she actually loves.
Damn it, there it is again. That pang of jealousy when I imagine another man with Megan.
I really shouldn’t care who she associates with, so why do I?
Maybe it’s been too long since the last time I had a woman in my life, that it makes me abnormally possessive.
Shit.
Do I consider her “a woman in my life” now? She’s supposed to be just another employee of mine, no different from Lana or Eliza.
Yet, I’ve never felt this way about either one of them, or any of my other employees. I’ve always been able to keep things completely professional, not just for appearances, but also inwardly. I’ve never been attracted to the people I work with.
I guess it’s because I’ve always been focused on working hard for Penny. Maybe I’ve been subconsciously ruling out the women at the office as potential partners because I was worried about how it would affect my business.
But now that the line is blurred between the professional and the personal between Megan and me, it’s like my eyes are now opened to the possibilities.
Or maybe it’s because I’ve been worried about how my dating would affect Penny. I’ve been avoiding women so they wouldn’t complicate my life and hurt Penny in the process.
I could deal with some crazy in my life if it were just me, but I could never risk introducing some nutcase to my daughter. But Penny seems to have taken to Megan, even though they’ve just had one short encounter.
It seems like things are going to get interesting, after all.
“Your wedding rings are the outward sign of the inward bond which unites your two hearts in love,” the wedding officiant says, spouting off his cheesy lines with no shame.
Lana steps forward to give me a ring. I hold out my hand and look expectantly at Megan. She puts her small, creamy, dainty hand on mine, and I’m overcome with the urge to pull her into my arms.
I restrain myself and just put the ring on her finger. My heart skips a beat when I see the golden band reflect the sunlight. It looks perfect perfect. It looks like it belongs there.
I tear my gaze away and let go of Megan’s hand. I’ll deal with these strange new feelings later, but this is not the time.
Lana hands Megan a matching ring, which she places on my finger.
I try to remind myself that this is just another contract, no different than the hundreds of legal agreements I’ve already signed in this office. These rings are just like signatures on this contract that we’re making.
I don’t protest when the wedding officiant declares us husband and wife, then tells us to seal our union with a kiss.
Sure, we may not have to do it because no government paperwork actually requires this bit, but I want to. I want to taste those pink, full lips.
I put my hands around Megan’s small waist and pull her closer. Why did I ever complain about the wedding officiant telling us to stand close to each other? It’s such a wonderful thing to be near her.
As Megan looks up into my eyes, her blonde hair catches the sunlight, making it look like there’s a white aura surrounding her. My breath catches. She’s beautiful, and I’m about to kiss her.
I lean in and tilt my head slightly to the side. She closes her eyes. This is happening.
Her lips feel soft and warm. The more I taste it, the more I want. Against my better judgment, I trace her sweet lips with my tongue.
She doesn’t pull away. If anything, her hands on my back urge me to get closer, to sample more of her. I’m not going to refuse her offer.
When we part, her lips look red and swollen, glistening with wetness. Her face is flushed, and her breathing is a quick and shallow. It takes zero imagination to picture her on the bed, looking exactly like that after I’ve worked her up and made her crave my cock inside her.
The entire office stays silent for a few seconds after I pull away, no doubt shocked by that passionate kiss.
Honestly, I’m surprised, too. I didn’t expect this level of chemistry. If I wanted Megan before, then I’m really craving her now.
“I’m pleased to present the newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Hunter,” the wedding officiant finally says.
Maybe it was awkward for Eliza and Lana to have witnessed their boss kissing another employee, but I don’t care.
I’ve had a little taste of Megan, and it has only made me want more.
Luckily for me, she’s going to live under my roof from now on.
Sooner or later, we’re going to end up in the same bed and I’m going to explore every inch of that sinful body.
Oh hey, look, I don’t hate my bride. This is better than my first marriage already.
Megan
I had no idea where Mr. Hunter lived before today. For some reason, I expected a big mansion with a long, winding driveway through a garden so big you could call it a forest.
The guy is so loaded I forget sometimes that he didn’t come from money.
It’s a pretty big achievement that he has managed to get this rich—if he didn’t also destroy a lot of people’s lives to get here, that is. Knowing what I know, I can’t be too impressed.
But that was before I saw his home.
His apartment building looks like any other newer ones in the downtown area. All glass and steel, with a balcony that faces the water, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
I’ve never lived in any place like that before, of course. But I know a few people who do, and I’ve visited a couple of times.
But I can feel the difference between those places and Mr. Hunter’s as soon as we walk up the stairs leading to the large glass double doors that serve as the main entrance to the building.
Instead of parking the car in a covered, restricted-access basement, Mr. Hunter just drives up the main driveway and stops the car.
One man in a white shirt and a black vest opens the door on my side. Another man wearing the same uniform lets Mr. Hunter out, then takes the wheel himself. He drives away, presumably to park the car. This apartment building has a freaking valet.
Instead of a regular key fob system to open the doors, there’s a fingerprint scanner. It’s not like it’s needed, though, because both the doorman and the concierge recognize Mr. Hunter and address him by name. I guess he’ll never be locked out of the building.
“May I take the luggage, Mr. Hunter?” asks the concierge as he walks around the counter, revealing a portly belly
that tests the strength of his shirt buttons. He has prominent cheekbones that don’t match the rest of his body, a pair of friendly brown eyes, and a big smile.
“There’s no need, Paul, thank you. I can do it myself,” Mr. Hunter says as he continues to pull my red hard-case luggage across the marble floors of the apartment lobby.
“Very well, Sir,” Paul replies.
Mr. Hunter stops in his tracks, like he has just suddenly remembered something. He puts one possessive hand around my shoulders, sending a thrill down my spine. Turning around, he says to Paul, “This is my wife, by the way. She’ll be living here from now on.”
I’m taken aback when he calls me his wife.
I mean, we are married, technically—and legally. I also know we have to fool everyone into thinking we’re an actual couple.
Still, this is the first time that I’m introduced as his wife, and it feels strange. Not unpleasant or irritating. I’m simply not used to it, I suppose.
“Oh, Mrs. Hunter, nice to meet you,” Paul says.
“Nice to meet you, too, Paul.”
The fact that Mr. Hunter has just introduced me to the concierge, out of all people, makes it feel even weirder.
I thought my first public appearance would be at some big event. I thought I would’ve been briefed by Eliza on what to say and do. I thought there would be camera flashes and microphones with logos of media outlets on them.
Instead, there’s just this mundane scene. This place is gorgeous and luxurious, but that doesn’t change the fact that Mr. Hunter is just introducing me to the modern, urban equivalent of his house staff.
It’s an everyday thing. And that’s exactly why this introduction feels so strange to me.
This doesn’t feel like acting. This feels like real life.
I fake a smile for the very real concierge in front of me as he politely welcomes me to the building. He presses the elevator button for us and lists all the facilities available to the residents of the building, telling me to come to him with any questions.
Mr. Hunter and I thank him as we enter the elevator. Again, he lets a machine scan his fingerprint. The door closes and the elevator starts to move up.
“Be careful with Paul. I think he’s receiving money from the media in exchange for information,” Mr. Hunter says. “There are some celebrities in the building and many paparazzi are willing to pay top dollar for some intel.”
“Oh, I never would’ve guessed that.”
“Yeah, he may seem friendly, but he has an agenda. Some of the other residents have been burned. They’ve had the details of their private lives leaked to the media.”
“Oh, are there famous people living here?”
“A couple of celebrities whose names I can never remember. The latest one is this guy, the heir to the Holt Bank. His wife just got pregnant and she made the mistake of telling Paul. Now they’ve got people hiding in the bushes to take her pictures.”
“Raphael Holt lives here?” I’ve heard of Raphael Holt. He used to be pretty wild but he has left the party scene, now that he’s married.
Okay, so I sometimes read gossip magazines. I don’t know how I feel about being the one whose personal life is being scrutinized and sold to nosey people like myself, though.
Regardless, it seems like I’ll have to get used to it, seeing as that’s pretty much my job description.
I wonder if celebrities themselves read gossip tabloids, or if they avoid them like the plague.
“That sounds like the right name,” Mr. Hunter says with a shrug. “I thought telling Paul would be a good way to get the gossip going organically. But be careful what you tell him.”
“Yes, Mr. Hunter.”
“And you’ll have to stop calling me Mr. Hunter. Married people—at least those born in this millennium—don’t talk like that to each other, Mrs. Hunter.” He smirks.
He’s only teasing, but the hint of possessiveness in his voice makes my heart skip a beat. It’s like he has branded me with his name, and I belong to him now.
But that can’t be true. This whole thing is just pretend.
“What should I call you, then?” I finally say after a pause that lasts five seconds too long. I’m rendered speechless by the simple act of him calling me by my married name, but I can’t show him how much it affects me.
“Just call me Ethan,” he says casually.
“Okay. Ethan,” I play with the name in my mouth, sounding it out. It feel strange.
Mr. Hunter—Ethan, I mean— looks at me, amusement dancing in his eyes. He seems pleased.
There’s just us in the elevator, but I still need to talk to him like he’s actually my husband. Instead of getting used to putting on an act on some occasions, I’ll have to get used to treating Mr. Hunt—Ethan—like he’s my real husband, so it would seem natural when we’re outside.
This whole thing is starting to feel more and more real.
“We’re here,” Ethan says when the elevator stops and the door opens.
I was expecting a hallway, perhaps a carpeted one, with narrow tables and nice sconces along the walls. You know, a nice hallway like you usually see in hotels and upscale apartments.
Instead, the elevator opens right into the apartment. There’s no hallway; not even a door.
All I see is a wide, open space with Ethan’s and Penny’s coats hanging on the wall hooks along one wall. Their shoes are neatly arranged in cubby-holes below the hangers. Their framed pictures are hung over of the hallway table.
“Is this…” My voice trails off as my mind wanders. This place is such a distraction. It’s hard to talk when my jaw drops open and refuses to close again from all the luxurious things in this apartment—and I’m only at the entrance. I clear my throat. “This is the only apartment on this floor?”
“Yes. We get a 360-degree view of the city and sunlight at all times of the day,” Ethan says as he points to the glass walls enclosing this apartment unit.
With the high ceilings, there's a lot of light flooding in, and I wonder if Ethan and Penny have ever taped pieces of cloth to the glass walls just to make it less intense, because I don’t see any curtains.
Aside from its rectangular shape, the layout of this place is unlike any home I’ve seen.
To avoid blocking the sunlight or the views, all the enclosed spaces are placed away from the outer glass walls. You can walk along the edge of the apartment and eventually return to your original spot.
There are two clusters of enclosed spaces, made up of the elevator we arrived in and, presumably, bedrooms and bathrooms. The rest of the apartment is completely open, with the living room and kitchen located in the middle.
The transparent walls make me feel exposed, although we're so high up it's unlikely anyone can see inside.
“I’d give you a tour, but you can probably see everything just fine from where you’re standing,” Ethan says. “Come here, let me show you your room.”
He pushes open a white door and drags my luggage inside, the wheels turning smoothly over the white marble floor, although one wheel squeaks a little. It looks tattered and out of place in this opulent space.
Like the rest of the apartment, my bedroom walls are white. If it wasn’t for the bed, it would look like a gallery, with the big paintings and black-and-white photographs hanging on the walls.
“Check this out,” Ethan says with a proud grin.
He pushes a button and what I thought was a wall lifts up, revealing a glass wall that lets me look across the hallway and out at the city skyline. My breath catches in my throat at the sight.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah” I say. I should be appalled that he could buy such an obnoxiously flashy apartment with the money that he has stolen from ordinary families like mine, but I have to admit I’m impressed. It is really cool.
“All the glass walls outside can be covered as well. You’ll find buttons like this all over the apartment. I just thought you should know, since you’ll probably be spen
ding some time home alone.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hunt—I mean, Ethan,” I say.
He seems pleased when I correct myself. His smile sends a chill down my arms, I realize with horror.
What’s happening to me? First, the kiss. And now, this?
“I’ll leave you to settle in, then. That door is where your en-suite bathroom is.”
“This whole room… It’s for me?”
“Yes, Megan. Unless you want to move to the marital bed?” Ethan shoots me a teasing smirk.
I can’t help it. Heat sears through my cheeks, and I know he can see the color in my face. Damn it, why do I have to be so pale that every little blush turns me bright red?
“Well?” Ethan cocks one eyebrow, obviously enjoying my embarrassment.
“Uh, I’m good here,” I say awkwardly. I wanted it to come out like a fun, casual comeback, but my cheeks still smolder, which makes it impossible to act cool.
“Okay, just let me know if you change your mind.” Ethan chuckles as he walks out and closes the door behind him.
I let out a big relieved sigh. Stepping toward the huge window, I push the button to close it again. I need some time to myself.
I’ve been plucked from my normal environment and placed here, where my every action is scrutinized. I’m already craving some privacy.
Now that I’m not needed at the office, this apartment is the only place where we don’t have to be husband and wife, and this room is the only private space that solely belongs to me. I don’t need anybody peeking in here.
Ethan has already invaded my family, years ago when he destroyed my parents’ livelihood and relationship. I’m not letting him into the only private space that I have, even if this bedroom technically belongs to him.
I step into the bathroom, which is ritzy in an understated way.
I stare at my own reflection in the mirror, expecting to see a different person.
But no, I look the same as I always have, even though I’m a wife now, and he has branded me with that blazing-hot kiss.
I expected a lot of things this morning when Mr. Hunter’s driver picked me up from my apartment in a black sedan and helped me put my luggage in the trunk. I wondered how many cars he has, and what the driver does all day when he's not driving Mr. Hunter or Penny all over town.
