Hate Mail (Paper Cuts #1) Read Online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Tags Authors: Series: Paper Cuts Series by Winter Renshaw
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Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
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Whoever gave Father Mark free rein to write his own speech should have given him a time limit. I exhale my frustration but keep my expression neutral. My patience is wearing thin already and we haven’t even exchanged the rings. At this rate, we’re going to be here until midnight.

“In times of tears and times of laughter, from this day forward, you’ll never be alone,” he continues. “Not only will you have each other, you’ll have a sea of loved ones who will stand beside you, support you, and encourage you along the way. Lean on them and draw strength from knowing you have an army of love behind you.”

Campbell’s expression hasn’t changed once this entire time. She hasn’t squeezed my hand. Hasn’t flinched. If anything, she’s almost robotic. I’ve never seen her so … controlled.

Last night, I pulled her aside and told her I could never love her the way she wanted to be loved. I might be a lot of things, but I wanted to give her one last ‘out.’ All night I lay awake in my hotel bed, wondering if I was going to get some middle-of-the-night text from her calling off the wedding. When the morning came and Oliver showed up with my tux in hand, I had my answer—she was planning to marry me anyway.

The reason, however, is anyone’s guess.

I imagine I’ll find out soon enough.

“May your love be a shining testament to all who bear witness today,” Father Mark says. “As you exchange vows and rings, let these symbols serve as a reminder of the promises you’re making to one another. I invite you to look into each other’s eyes and remember this moment, for it marks the beginning of an extraordinary adventure that requires only love as your compass and faith in one another as your guiding light.”

Oliver hands me the rings, and as I place Campbell’s on her finger, I repeat Father Mark’s vows. Campbell does the same.

“As a witness to your beautiful love and blessed commitment to one another, I’m honored to pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Slade Victor Delacorte. May God bless your union with abundance. You may now seal your everlasting bond with a kiss.”

I slip one hand around the small of her waist while the other cups her cheek, and then I lean in, claiming her rosy lips and dipping her back. To my surprise, she actually kisses me back, and we remain lip-locked for more than a handful of seconds. When I pull away, our eyes hold for a single endless moment. I lift my fist in the air, pumping it as if I’m the luckiest man on earth, which seems to rouse a pleasant reaction from the pews.

Not a single soul in this place has the faintest clue we’re not the happy couple we pretend to be.

With my new wife by my side, we make our way down the aisle, hand in hand, nothing but dopey grins on our faces. The church organ plays a recessional song while everyone stands for us, cheering, celebrating, dabbing their happy tears with tissues.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom would like to receive you all at the Hotel Chevalier Ballroom,” Father Mark announces as we head towards one of the chauffeured Rolls Royces outside.

The driver gets the door for us, and I help Campbell with her dress.

The five seconds we’re alone together, before the driver climbs back in, are the quietest five seconds of my life. If we had more time, I’d ask her why she chose to marry me after what I said last night.

She scoots all the way over, leaving an ocean-sized gap between us.

I keep my question to myself—for now.

Ten silent minutes later, we’re the first to arrive at The Chevalier Hotel, where everything’s in full swing for the night. Dozens of servers in black and white uniforms are stationed around the ballroom with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres and the band is set up on the stage in front of a freshly waxed dance floor. For the next four hours, we’ll be hamming it up for the crowd before retiring to our honeymoon suite upstairs.

“Champagne for the happy couple?” A brunette woman I vaguely recognize as the wedding planner hands us each a flute. I have no idea where the champagne saucers we picked out that day are. I’m about to tell her Campbell doesn’t drink champagne, but my bride graciously accepts a flute from her anyway and downs it in three swallows.

Guests begin to arrive in droves, the space growing louder by the minute. In the corner, a string quartet plays classical versions of modern love songs while everyone gets settled at their assigned tables.

Our bridal party arrives somewhere in the mix. Not unsurprisingly, Oliver is chatting up Campbell’s friend Stassi, whom he was specifically told was off-limits. I smirk, rolling my eyes. Tigers don’t change their stripes, not even at million-dollar weddings.


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