“Because I have responsibilities?—”
“Yeah, I heard you, and your family wants to meet me. Butwhy?”
Sighing deeply, he rubs his hand down his face. “I am of Spanish nobility, and my father has passed. I am to take succession as a baron, and with that, there are traditions we uphold. Now that your existence is known, my family is insistent upon your attendance at both the funeral and the ceremony in which I inherit his title. I have made excuses for your absence thus far, but there are none I can fabricate for these events that would seem legitimate. Our marriage may have been a foolish, drunken night in Paris, but it was very much a real union.”
I stop breathing as I stare at him, my hand covering my mouth in shock. Thankfully, I’m back at the edge of the couch because my legs give out, and I slump onto it, absolutely astonished by what I’m hearing.
“I know this is a lot of information,” he continues. “There is still a lot I have not divulged. I’m going to give you some time and space to think.” He sets a keycard on top of my coffee table, and I skim the logo—The Manhattan Grand Hotel. “I am here for two more days, in room fifteen-thirty-six. Please, Raina, sleep on all I have shared, then meet me tomorrow so we can speak further.”
Javier squeezes my shoulder as he passes by to leave my apartment, and while I should feel at ease knowing I don’t have to force him out, my mind is reeling.
The only thing my brain keeps echoing, like the incessant sound of a smoke alarm that needs a new battery, is that I need to get a divorce.
I need to get a divorce as soon as possible.
How the hell can I actually be married?
I need a divorce.
And in order to get one, I’m going to need a divorce attorney.
My heart hammers in my chest as I stare down at the contact profile in my phone for Luciano. I’m teetering on the cusp of calling him, but a bigger part of me would rather pull up a web browser to search how to fake my own death and disappear into thin air.
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours replaying the conversation with Javier over and over in my mind, alongside all the memories I have from that night in Paris, which aren’t many.
To say I’m confused is an understatement. Wouldn’t I know if I’d gotten married? Surely there would have been some sort of indication that we had. A clue. A damn photograph?
Letting the phone slide from my hand and onto the couch, I lean back against the plush backing and tilt my head against it, closing my eyes as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I need to think. Need to strain my mind for anything that will jog my memory or reassure me there’s no way this is happening. Itcan’tbe true.
White spots burst behind my closed eyes as I squeeze them together, blips of that night flickering through my mind, coming in and out in a blur that’s difficult to decipher. It’s like trying to watch the scary part of the movie when your mother is coveringyour eyes so you can’t see, but you still can get a sense of what’s happening through her fingers.
A gasp tears through me as the morning after drifts through my thoughts and I remember the white bouquet on the table by the window and the empty bottles of champagne.
Surely, that's notevidenceof our nuptials.
We can’t be married. There’s no way.
But as tears sting my eyes, the sinking feeling of reality settles into my bones and I realize that’s more than enough proof. We were both blacked-out drunk—at least I know I was—and all I have to go off is his word, the piece of paper he’s presented to me, and the memory of two tangible items that screamwedding.
Picking up my phone again, I enter my passcode and stare at Luciano’s name before dragging my eyes to the coffee table where Javier’s room key sits on top of the rich mahogany. An unsteady breath leaves my lungs before I bite the edge of my lip and contemplate my next course of action. My hands tremble, my phone in one hand as I reach for the keycard with the other, trusting my gut to make the right decision.
When I arrive at The Manhattan Grand twenty minutes later, nausea roils low in my stomach as the elevator carries me to the fifteenth floor. The shake in my hands from earlier still hasn’t left, and I feel my palms sweat beneath the tight grasp I have on my clutch purse.
I’ve never doubted myself in a decision as much as I currently am. While every natural instinct tells me to hear Javier out, my fight-or-flight tells me to run. Somewhere within me there’s a voice screamingit’s not true, when the reality is, I have no freaking idea.
But maybe he does.
At this point, hearing him out seems like the only option.
When the elevator doors open, I ready myself with a deep breath before stepping onto Javier’s floor and follow the signs to room fifteen-thirty-six, grateful that the floors are carpeted and muffle the sound of my heels.
There’s an undeniable lump in my throat as I reach his room, but before I can talk myself out of it—because trust me, the only thing I want to do is talk myself out of it—I rap my knuckles on his door in three quick knocks.
He answers the door within seconds, surprise coating his features the moment our eyes collide.
“You came.”
