Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
And I’m the only person in the world who will get on board with that.
My spirits sink.
I wander around the bedroom, wishing my life was simpler. That I could run upstairs, laugh about this with Blakely, and then go to brunch with her, Brock, and Ella. I wish I didn’t have to worry about headlines, publicists, and contracts.
But I do.
Anger floods me again as my conversation with Frances hits me again. “I’m paid to protect your image. Your father has already called this morning …”
Fuck this.
I’ll be damned if this is handled like Blakely is a nonissue—if my father tries to get involved to save his own skin and act as if Blakely is inconsequential. He might treat me like that, but I’ll be damned if he does it to her.
What does she even think about this? I’m sure she’s as gobsmacked as I am. And what is Brock’s reaction going to be once he’s settled down? I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t try to fight me again.
I don’t know whether to smash something or vomit.
My phone rings, tipping the scales toward vomiting. I know it’s Dad without looking. I can feel the judgment, the wrath about to come my way.
I take a long, deep breath before looking at the screen.
I might as well get it over with.
“Hello?” I say.
“Renn, what the fucking hell is this shit? I wake up this morning to calls that you got married last night? Are you out of your damn mind?”
I wince. “Ah, you heard …”
“How about for once in your damn life you listen—and you listen good. This little stunt of yours could cost me a deal worth three-quarters of a billion dollars that I’ve been working on for two years—not to mention your contract. My God, Renn. Do you realize how badly you’ve fucked up this time?”
“You know, it’s really not that big of a deal.”
I regret the words as soon as I say them. I pull the phone away from my ear just in time.
“Not that big of a deal?” His laughter—loud and obnoxious—is at my expense. “Son, getting married and filing for an annulment less than twenty-four hours later is a big fucking deal. That’s especially true when your employer just made you sign a fucking waiver that you won’t embarrass the team or become a media distraction!”
“You realize that short of this being a real marriage because you’re in love, the only way to possibly save Blakely’s image, your contract, and your father’s purchase is to nip this in the bud, right?”
I tune out my father’s rant and do my best to sort through the alcohol still in my system and think that last thought through. Short of this being a real marriage because you’re in love …
My heart pounds.
What if we didn’t get an annulment? What if Blakely and I stayed married? Would it really hurt anything?
I pace back and forth across the bedroom.
It wouldn’t hurt anything for me. I’d have a beautiful wife who’s respectable and classy. But would it hurt anything for her?
I’m kind of scared to answer that. But I can answer what staying married could help … lots of things.
Maybe everything.
“This is a ridiculous question because I know you didn’t think this through. But on the off chance that you had any thoughts at all—did you think about a prenuptial agreement?” Dad asks. “Or a postnuptial one? Tell me you took some precautions.”
His insinuation cuts through me like a hot knife, and I stop in my tracks. “Excuse me?”
“You have to think about this shit. I’m sure the pussy is great, but—”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Oh, Renn.”
My blood boils as I stare out the window. “Believe it or not, there are other people in this world besides you. And all of them aren’t bad.”
“What has she done to you?” he asks, chuckling.
I ball my hand at my side. Fuck this. “I’ll call you later.”
“Renn!”
I end the call before I say things I can’t take back.
My anger grows as I replay our conversation. Prenuptial agreement. Postnuptial agreement. “I’m sure the pussy is great …”
“This is what they’ll do to her—what my own father will do to her,” I say to the empty room. “And I can’t let that happen.”
I toss my phone on the bed and head for the shower.
I need to wash some sense into myself before I do something really stupid—like propose a fake marriage.
CHAPTER 11
Blakely
“I don’t even want to know what this is going to cost,” I say, taking in the ice cream-stained mattress.
After my bath, I gathered the sheets and pillowcases. I wasn’t sure what to do with them, so I filled the tub with hot water and body wash and added the bedding. I read somewhere that soaking stuff after it’s freshly stained helps. But the mattress? I don’t know how to clean chocolate and blood out of that.