by K. I. Lynn
I swallowed hard, then stepped into the opening and walked through. As I did, Holly straightened from behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders.
It was an intimate pose, not one of boss and employee, and something about it rubbed me wrong. She picked something up from his desk, her eyes trained on me as her hips swayed with each step toward me.
Her lips spread into a smile and I bristled, my hackles slightly raising. At a glance, it seemed no different than all the smiles she’d given me before, but after seeing her wrapped around Atticus, I was viewing her in a different light.
One I didn’t like.
When I reached Atticus’s desk, his eyes were closed, jaw set in a hard line, and he was leaning forward, his head against his hand that appeared to be massaging the stress from his temple. It wasn’t working. The fire and rage vibrating from him was enough to have me scampering away, but I stayed put.
I should not have come. Whatever conversation we were about to have was bound to leave me in as foul of a mood as he was in, I just knew it.
“Ophelia,” he said as he stared at me, his lip curling up in disgust as he looked me over. He picked up his phone, his fingers flying over the screen before placing it down. “We need to get you new clothes tomorrow. I can’t have my fiancée looking like a fucking hobo.”
I glanced down at my outfit. What was wrong with jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt? When my attention turned back to him, the difference was night and day. Every suit Atticus wore draped his body like a work of art, perfectly tailored down to the millimeter.
It took everything in me not to lick my lips at the sight of him.
“I was just walking around and—”
“You walked here?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Walking down the streets of New York City with that on your hand?” He glanced at my hand, his brow furrowing. “Where is your ring?”
I stretched my fingers. “It’s in my room.”
“Every time you leave the house, that ring needs to be on your finger.”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you, and I also wanted to get out of there for a little while, so two birds, one stone.”
“No more walking around the city on your own.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. The announcement will happen in a few weeks and once word gets out, you will be the top Google search for weeks.”
“What?”
He nodded. “You’re marrying me. The public will want to know who you are.”
“People will be searching me?” It hit me like a punch in the gut. All because I was marrying him?
“For every little piece of information they can grasp.”
“Shit.” My stomach that was already in knots, tightening.
“Have you read the file I gave you?” he asked.
“You mean the history textbook on the life of Atticus William de Loughrey?”
He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked up to mine. “What is that supposed to mean?”
I rolled my eyes. “It means the only way those sheets of paper could get less personal is if they were on a bullet-point timeline.”
“You need to know about me.”
“Yes, about you, but right now I don’t need to know that you were captain of the Harvard rowing team or that you purposely failed chemistry as a social experiment in eighth grade. And who the hell is taking chemistry in eighth grade?” They were just a few points I’d noticed when flipping through the pages.
His spine straightened and he stared at me, his brow furrowed. “Those are both points of interest in my history.”
“Perhaps, but they don’t tell me anything about you. Not you as a person or you as a man I would find remotely attractive.”
“And what would?”
I threw my hands up. “How about an actual sit down, get-to-know-you dinner date?” That was the whole reason I’d walked nearly two miles. I didn’t realize it until it was out.
An evening that was two people getting to know each other. How things normally went before two people got engaged.
He blinked at me almost as if I was speaking a foreign language to him, one he couldn’t identify. What was wrong with the man? How did he become so detached to personal interaction?
“We had dinner together last night.”
“We ate together last night, then went off to different rooms. You know nothing about me, and it would be a great way to get to know me.”
“I know plenty about you. From your educational background, to your father’s death, and how old you were when you lost your virginity. I also know your credit score, your mounting debts, and that you are in serious need of a good haircut and not the five-dollar butchering you’re wearing.”
“Excuse m—”
“And while we’re on the subject of hair, once we get someone to properly manicure that overly masculine cut, you will begin growing it out.”
I slammed my hands down on his desk, gaining his attention again. “What the fuck gives you the right to tell me how to wear my hair? It’s a pixie cut. Cute. Feminine. And most importantly—I like it. And that’s only the first of my grievances against what you just revealed.”
“Do I need to remind you again who I am? Do you think I failed to diligently research you before enacting my plan?”
It unnerved me to think he’d looked so deeply into my life. He’d only skimmed some highlights, but it was enough to realize he knew much more about me than I believed. It was naïve of me. He told me he’d done a background check, we talked about Lou, but somehow the in-depth portion didn’t click.
“I’m not changing my hair.”
“Yes, you are. I’ve arranged an appointment with my personal stylist. She has a hair and makeup crew ready, and arriving before Melanie arrives with your new wardrobe.”
“Wardrobe?” I thought a few pieces, but even with as little as I knew him, I had a feeling my closet would be stuffed by the time Melanie left—whoever that was.
His eyes moved up and down my body. “I have a feeling your entire outfit cost less than my lunch.”
Ouch. But he probably wasn’t far off.
“If you are to play the part of my wife, you also need to look the part. You will be on my arm at charity dinners, family gatherings, and photo sessions, and you will need to present accordingly.”
I shook my head. “You are not changing how I look.”
“Per the contract, I am. Or did you fail to properly read through before signing it?”
I froze, my stomach sinking. A vague memory floated to the surface of my thoughts, a skim of a line of text that instructed I would look the part he wanted, including all aspects of my wardrobe, hair, and makeup.
“Shit.”
“You added in a clause of no sex, and I added in control of your appearance. If ten million dollars no longer interests you, I can bill you for my wasted time and efforts and you can be on your way.”
“You are an arrogant son of a bitch,” I seethed. It was a side of him I wasn’t used to seeing—wicked in his dealings and the way he manipulated the situation to his advantage.
“Careful, Ophelia. You will watch your tongue when cursing out the matriarch of my family. The walls have ears, and Vera has sharp claws that will slice through you without even touching you.”
My head spun. Stupid. I was so stupid to have believed that he was my miracle cure for all that was wrong in my shitty life. Now he owned me, quite literally, for five years. Why didn’t I realize that earlier? Was I so entranced by the man I knew that one night?
“I want a date.”
“Have Holly set it up on your way out.”
“You can’t even do that yourself?” With all the people running his life, it shouldn’t have surprised me.
His gaze narrowed. “If I don’t even have time to find a suitable woman for a wife, do you think I have time to schedule frivolous wastes of my time with things such as a date? Not
only a date, but one with my fake fiancée?”
I flinched at the word fake. It was both true and untrue. I was legitimately his fiancée—I had the huge-ass rock to prove it. The truth portion was that I was bought and paid for. We weren’t a real relationship. We were a business transaction. Still, it stung.
“Maybe not, but if you want me to be the doting piece of arm candy or trophy wife in training, you might want to warm me up to your demeanor before I decide to scratch your eyes out.”
His lip twitched up, and he leaned back in his chair. “Friday night. Seven. Meet me here.”
“Not going to pick me up?”
“You’ll be here at seven, and not a minute late.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”
“Michael is waiting for you outside the lobby. He’ll take you home.”
My fingers flexed and my jaw clenched. Instead of arguing a battle I wasn’t going to win, I acquiesced and stormed out, slamming his door as I went.
Holly jumped at the sound, and I let out a growl of frustration. She gave me a small smile that for some reason heightened my suspicion. For all I knew, she spent her afternoons tucked under his desk getting him off.
What the hell had I gotten myself into?
It didn’t surprise me that after Hamilton’s visit to my office, the word of my engagement had spread around the family. Gossip circulated like wildfire through the ranks, but never past the family name. De Loughreys didn’t talk about the family to non-de Loughreys.
“What do you mean you’re engaged?” my mother screeched.
“Just as I said. She is coming to the family dinner.”
There was a pause, then a sigh. “Why are you doing this, Atticus?”
“Doing what?”
“Defying everyone’s wishes.”
“Everyone’s? I don’t give a shit about everyone. I have sacrificed my life for this family, and this one act is the only thing that is mine and mine alone, and I will not have it dictated by anyone!”
“Couldn’t you have picked someone like Lucinda Carmichael?”
Luci? “Aldrich’s little sister? Come now, Mother. No.”
“There must be someone else. Antonia? Bridget?” For my mother to be bringing them up, she must have been desperate. They were both from well-off families, though nowhere near some of the family’s oldest friends, but they knew how to act at social functions.
Something I was certain Ophelia was going to have trouble with due to her upbringing.
“I have to get back to work. Goodbye.” I hung up, not even waiting for a reply.
My irritation grew, and I threw my pen down onto the desk. The office was my reprieve from Ophelia, but the more people who knew, the more she invaded my work life. Even if it was just my mother on the phone, it was minutes in my office that were dedicated to my new fiancée.
My cell phone pinged at the same time as my email popped up a new message.
Rhys: You’re engaged?!
The vein on my forehead throbbed, and I took a centering breath.
Atticus: You’re an idiot.
Rhys: It’s quite the gossip. By the way, am I doing your prenup?
While normally Alexander would handle such contracts, Rhys was the only one privy to the one I had with Ophelia, and therefore the only one capable.
Atticus: Yes. Get a preliminary draft going.
Though we had a contract for marriage and children and the payment for five years, the prenuptial agreement was a necessity.
Rhys: Am I including the ‘no sex clause’?
I ground my teeth and blew out a breath.
Atticus: No.
Atticus: Add a million dollar a year alimony until she gets remarried in that in the event of divorce.
It had only been a week since I fully formed my plan, but the idea of us divorcing made my stomach clench. If after five years she couldn’t stand me, I wouldn’t force her to stay with me, even knowing how hard it would be to let her go. I also couldn’t stand the idea of her living in some shit-box apartment again because prices were so high in the city. Could she even live off of or provide a safe place for our children with ten million?
No, I would provide that as well.
Rhys: Seriously? You’re already paying her a hefty sum. What happens in the event she never remarries?
Atticus: Irrelevant. Also, child support. I am responsible for all expenses for our children, and housing in the Tower in addition to her alimony.
Rhys: You’re a fucking idiot.
That was when it hit me, and I cursed, throwing the phone back down onto the desk.
I wanted to take care of her, no matter what.
I’d never even had an inkling of that desire before I met her. But there it was, in every interaction for the past year.
I made sure she was my waitress and tipped her well, all to keep her close and to make certain she was doing well. She was very good at her job, so much so I never realized what I had actually done. That I cared for her to some extent.
My computer pinged again and I turned my attention away from thoughts of Ophelia.
The email was from our in-house investigator, Hugo. He was a detective once upon a time, but after a severe injury on the job, he changed direction and we hired him on. He quickly became an essential part of our security team. Everything from business backgrounds to dates, he was paid well to find out all he could. He was who I used to get me information on Ophelia.
A groan left me at the title, and I cursed under my breath. For one fucking day could the de Loughreys behave?
To: de Loughrey, Atticus
From: Dennings, Hugo
Subject: Hiking the Appalachian Trail
Preston has been thinking about going hiking.
Short, sweet, and to the point. That was one thing I liked about our communications. I didn’t have time to read the intricacies of boundless information collected. While we did need to talk in code, the messages were clear and told me all I needed to know.
My brother-in-law needed to be put in his place.
To: Dennings, Hugo
From: de Loughrey, Atticus
Subject: Re: Hiking the Appalachian Trail
Let me know if he sets a date so we can cancel all plans.
As always, my family had impeccable timing. It was bad enough that my sanctuary was invaded, but now my brother-in-law was looking to cheat on my pregnant sister. Thankfully Hugo was always watching out for scandals. He worked solely for the de Loughrey family, and he enjoyed the detecting part without the danger.
The day called for a relaxing drink and some music, but I wouldn’t have that. Ophelia’s presence was more disrupting than I imagined. Simply having her near was throwing me off kilter.
We made it through the last few days fairly unscathed. I didn’t think it would be difficult to have her in my space, but I found it to be tortuous. And it wasn’t just her scent and the nearness of her body locked away in my home.
When I decided to have her live with me, I assumed nearly eight thousand square feet would be enough room that we wouldn’t have to interact often. Everywhere I went, there she was. It had only been a few days, and she ate dinner with me, watched TV, and read books in the library while I worked.
I wasn’t used to living with another person. At least not since I’d moved to the city full time a decade ago. The desire to get out of Stronghold and away from my parents and grandfather drove me to a condo not far from where we would build Olympus Tower, not to mention the need to get away from my younger siblings. Genevieve and Penelope were still in middle and high school at the time, and forty-seven-thousand square feet held no reprieve from teenage girls.
Here in the condo, I’d been forced to retreat to my bedroom more than once to feel at peace. It was the one room Ophelia had never stepped foot in, so it wasn’t filled by her.
She asked for a date, a date that was happening in a few hours, and the thought of it set me on edge. Most of my dates didn’t require menial conversation, b
ut somehow I knew Ophelia wound insist on it.
She wanted to know me, but I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. I couldn’t keep the darkness from her forever. It always bled through, but the wicked king had been kept at bay.
It was then that insecurities I didn’t even know I had came to light—I was afraid of Ophelia getting to know me.
And hating what she saw.
After the enlightening trip to Atticus’s office, I’d been bombarded for days.
Melanie, Atticus’s personal shopper, arrived with rack after rack of clothing. Between her and her three assistants, it was two trips to the salon level. There was a huge dressing room complete with more mirrors than needed and enough space for everything she brought and then some. Maybe it was actually a dance studio? A little while later I confirmed that was incorrect—there was also a dance studio.
Hours of going through clothes and looks and convincing me more than once that I needed something. By the end, my walk-in closet was completely stuffed and I had outfits for all occasions—though she did promise to be back, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
It almost sounded like a threat.
The next day was spent in the salon where my “five-dollar butchering” got an overhaul. Begrudgingly, I admitted that my hair looked better than it did before. Waxing, manicure, pedicure, facial—I felt like Sandra Bullock in that movie, only I thought I was in better shape than I apparently was.
Atticus’s eyes were wide when he saw me that night. He circled me as he took in all my upgrades.
“Very nice,” he said.
“Does m’lord approve?” I asked with a smirk.
His expression dropped, and he turned around and left.
A sigh left me. We would get better, it was just going to take time. I hoped our date would help with that.
The next afternoon I sat on my bed, chewing on my bottom lip, trying to decide if I wanted to call my mom.
Want? Not really. Need to before she reads about my engagement in the papers? Very much so.
Lou, my stepfather, was a worthless drunk, and I didn’t want him to get wind that I was engaged to a man who had more money than the Queen of England. Hell, the de Loughreys probably had more money than at least a dozen countries combined.
