Page 36 of Bridesmaid By Chance
This entire situation just got a whole lot more serious.
“Stacey,” he says, addressing her. “I have a car waiting for you as well. Tell the driver where you would like to go for ice cream. It’s on me.”
Then he walks up to me, holds his arm out, and says, “Let’s go home.”
I stare at his arm and then back at him. I point to his gesture and ask, “Am I supposed to just slip my arm in yours and act like this is all normal?”
He leans in and says through clenched teeth, “The quicker you realize just how real this is, the easier it will be for you.”
Oh boy.
Okay.
So this is serious.
This man really thinks this marriage is real.
“You know, just for the record, I assumed this was going to be more casual.”
He takes my arm and slips it through his. “This isn’t fake dating, Sloane. This is a goddamn marriage. You’re my wife. The expectations are different.”
He guides me down the hall, my sister trailing after me. “Expectations.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Can you elaborate on those?”
He punches the down button and faces forward as he says, “Read the agreement. You will know.”
The elevator doors open, and we step in. When he pushes the button for the first floor and the doors close, Stacey says, “Note to self, always read the document before signing.”
No shit.
Chapter Six
HUDSON
I flip on the lights to the entryway of my midcentury home and allow Sloane to walk in front of me.
“Wow, so this is where the beast dwells,” she says, taking in the newly renovated open space of the dining, living room, and kitchen. Fresh oak flooring, dark gray walls, white furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out toward the bay. “Fancy.”
I set my keys down and move to the kitchen, where I take a highball glass off the shelf and pour myself some water because my mouth is dry as fuck.
Ever since Sloane showed up to my office wearing that fucking white dress that squeezed every curve of her torso but flared out at her hips, hitting her midthigh, I needed a drink—something much stronger than the water I’m currently consuming.
I kept telling myself over and over again,Don’t do it.
Leave.
Run.
But as the reverend checked the time and I sensed something was going on in the bathroom that didn’t deal with any sort of plucking, I knew she was getting cold feet—like me. And internally, that fucked with my pride.
I’m ashamed to even admit it.
But something inside me, a protective side, told me I needed to sootheher. So that’s what I did, which of course set me on the straight and narrow to holy matrimony. Because once I saw the trust she had in me, I was a goner.
And now…well, fuck, now what the hell am I going to do?
My lawyer, Frederick Steinfeld, the fucker, told me that I needed to put in that agreement that we would live together. The man didn’t bat an eyelash about the entire thing; it was as if it wasn’t his first time drawing up a marriage contract because he spoke from experience. He told me she needed to live with me, that if we were going to be married, we needed to go all in, in order to convince people. At first, I didn’t think it was necessary because we were just doing this for business, but the more I thought about keeping it a secret, the more I thought:What happens if it gets back to Jude?
If he ever finds out, I want to at least be able to tell him that I treated his sister like a queen. That I was a model husband. That I never let anything bad happen to her. That I could look him in the eyes and say I took the vows seriously.
