Victor watches me, eyes the color of morning fog sweeping over my skin.
"I'll call you a driver," he says, reaching for his phone and typing fast.
"I can get my own?—"
"Harper." His voice is firm as he continues tapping away. "We're already trending on Instagram. You're not leaving this hotel in yesterday's dress looking like you're doing a walk of shame from your accidental husband's suite. I will have a driver take you back to your own hotel room. You'll change. I’ll have my assistant coordinate us later in New York to coordinate our story."
“In New York?”
“Yes.” He peers up, dark brows cocked. “I’m assuming since you’re starting at my company on Monday that’s where you’ll be.”
Shit.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Good. Then I’ll have my plane readied to take you back in the morning. My driver James will text you an hour ahead of time and then when he arrives. You'll be wheels-up within the hour. Private terminal. No press. No photos. You'll land at Teterboro, and another car will take you home."
"Your…plane?"
"It's the only way to avoid the photographers who are undoubtedly already camped outside this hotel. Pack light. Anything you leave behind, I'll have shipped." His eyes meet mine, cold and decisive when he sees me glitching. "This isn't a negotiation, Harper."
“Wow.” I snort. “That “icy’ moniker of yours really applies, doesn’t it?”
His voice takes on a gravelly authoritative tone—one that probably makes his fellow executives wet themselves. He straightens to his full six-foot-plus height. "You accuse me of being icy? Good. I have reason to be. I own a media empire worth thirty-three billion dollars, employing fourteen thousand people. And as of two weeks ago, when that offer letter went out, I am your CEO."
My breath seizes in my body as he keeps going.
"Which means," he continues, each word falling hard from his full lips, "when I tell you to get in the car, you get in the car. When I tell you to get on the plane, you get on the plane. And when I tell you that we are going to handle this situation my goddamned way, you are going to listen. Do I make myself clear?”
I should tell him to go to hell, should throw something at his stupidly handsome face, should storm out of here and let him deal with the press on his own.
But instead I nod stiffly.
It's the plane scenario all over again.
Me screwing up, making a mess of everything, and him swooping in to save me with his piercing eyes and no-nonsense commands.
And it doesn't help that he's right.
In fact, I downright hate it.
"Fine," I hear myself say.
"I'll text you the details."
"You already have my number. Along with my employment history and probably my credit score."
His jaw tightens. "Harper?—"
"I'll see you later, Victor."
I grab my purse., heading for the door, letting it slam behind me on the way out.
As I enter the elevator and the mirrored doors close in around me, I try not to stare at my reflection.
At the smudged makeup, the tangled hair, the one remaining false eyelash clinging desperately to my eyelid…and the ring.
The ginormous, has-it-own-gravity, big enough to have its own solar system ring that tells the world—and me—that I’m married.
