"What?" I demand.
"Nothing," Roman says, but he's grinning. "Just... good luck with that."
"I don't need luck. I need Harper to do what she's contractually obligated to do."
"Right. Because that's definitely how successful relationships work. Through contractual obligation and surveillance."
"This isn't a relationship. It's an arrangement." I drain my bourbon and stand. "I should go."
"Running away?" Christian asks.
“Yeah, smart-ass. From this conversation. From you two assholes. From?—"
"From thinking about Harper?" Roman finishes.
“Let me make it abundantly clear to you two dickheads, if I haven’t already.” I slip into my suit jacket, fastening the buttons. “I have no intention on letting this marriage get away from me. I have no intention of ever marrying. Almost making it down the aisle once was enough for a lifetime. And I am never doing that shit again.”
Turning on my heel, I head for the door, skin heating, head buzzing from the alcohol, mentally cementing my grandmother’s Sunday dinner plans into something bearable.
As for Harper Beaumont…
The guys are right about one thing—having the woman I’m married to followed isn’t exactly endearing.
Deciding to pull James from tailing her, I push through the heavy oak doors and step out into the October evening, the cold air hitting my face like a reset button—a reminder that while Harper Beaumont may deserve her privacy, ultimately, the pretty, accident-prone brunette is simply a tool.
That's what I tell myself as I walk toward where James is waiting with the car.
A means to an end, a strategic asset in a game I need to win.
Yes, she's undeniably attractive, enough to make the blood between my ears relocate to somewhere southward. And yes, she's interesting, witty—sharp-tongued and even entertaining.
But I'm not a man who does romance. Ever.
My older brother Alexei made damn sure of that three years ago.
Two months. That's the arrangement.
Two months to stabilize the board, close the acquisition, let the media circus die down. Two months to use her exactly the way she agreed to be used—as the face of stability, commitment, the humanizing force that turns the Ice Prince into someone the board can trust.
And then we're done.
She gets her career. I get my company.
I climb into the back of the Mercedes truck that James is driving, limbs stiffening, resolve sharpening.
Because that's the deal.
And that's all it can ever be.
7
MRS. BILLIONAIRE, I PRESUME?
HARPER
By Thursday evening, I’m standing in my Brooklyn apartment, staring at the chaos that is my life, and wondering if mortification counts as a terminal illness.
The late October air filters in through my open living room window. In New York, this time of year means the leaves are turning that perfect burnt orange and the air has that crisp bite that makes you want to wear scarves, drink cider, and pretend your life isn’t actively trying to humiliate you on a global scale.
