I wish I could believe it.
CHAPTER THREEImani
‘So, you’re engaged now?’
‘Hello to you, too,’ I say over the rim of my glass as I watch my best friend slide into our booth. She’s twenty minutes late which, to be honest, is actually pretty good for her.
Sloane gives me a sheepish grin, tossing her long, black wavy curls over her shoulder as she settles in front of me. I know for a fact that she only woke up an hour ago, but she looks immaculate. Such is the life of a top model. Always got to be ready. Sloane, unfortunately, is no stranger to weirdos trying to snap a sneaky, off-guard photo of her to plaster all over social media.
As Malcolm Davies’ daughter, I get my fair share of public interest and headlines, but for Sloane it’s on another level. Top model, daughter of A-list actors Kiran and Margot Chavan, and granddaughter to British Indo-Caribbean theatre icon, Veera Chavan, Sloane has had theglare of the camera flash in her eye from the moment she was born.
Luckily, she’s gorgeous and I can count the number of ‘bad photos’ I’ve seen of her on one hand and still have a finger or two left over. But still, it must get annoying always having to be primped and preened the way she does. Not that I’ve ever heard her complain. She leans into the chaos and makes it part of her persona – the two-time nepo baby everyonewantsto hate but can’t because, well, just look at the material.
‘Sorry,’ she drawls. ‘Late night last night, and I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a while. Shouldn’t you be somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea by now?’
‘I should be three hours away from paradise right about now,’ I whimper dramatically as a waiter approaches and wordlessly fills up Sloane’s glass before disappearing back into the shadows. ‘But I’m officially grounded.’
Sloane arches a thick, perfectly fluffed brow and snorts. ‘Grounded? Are you sixteen?’
‘Unfortunately, I mean in the literal sense. No flights for me for the foreseeable future. He’s done everything but cut up my passport.’
On my ride home – solo – from the Vouvalis building, I logged into my Peregrine Airways account and discovered, thanks to the bright red alert running across the homepage, that a hold has been placed on my previously limitless account.
Indefinitely.
Sloane clutches at her literal pearls. ‘No.’
‘Yes,’ I say glumly, and take another sip of wine.
She reaches across the table and gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze. ‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing!’ I squawk indignantly. ‘It’s what Ididn’tdo.’
Sloane frowns then seems to remember the flood of increasingly incoherent messages I sent her this morning. ‘Right. This engagement thing?’
Just hearing the wordengagementmakes me want to heave. I still haven’t quite accepted that this is really happening. That my father would so easily hand me over as a means to get a step ahead in business. A knot starts to form in my throat but I force it away by swallowing down another gulp of wine. Now is not the time for tears.
Now is the time forstrategising.
Asher and I have agreed to meet up later this week to firm up my admittedly sketchy plan, so I’ve got just under seventy-two hours to work out the kinks here. And there are alotof kinks. First and foremost: the plan is insane, a fact Sloane helpfully reminds me of as soon as I share it with her.
‘You’ve been watching too many romcoms,’ she says. ‘Or, you haven’t watched enough. It’s meant to be fake dating, not fake exes. And even the former is patently ridiculous.’
I wave a dismissive hand in front of her. ‘I’ve thought this through.’
Sloane snorts. ‘No, you most definitely have not. You’ve thoughtathought. One single, deranged thought. Which was “What if I pretend to be heartbroken over a fake ex so I can get out of marrying a real fiancé I never asked for?”?’
‘Exactly! You get it.’
‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘I don’t. I really don’t.’
I sigh and slump back against the booth. She’s right. The plan is unhinged. But these are desperate times. ‘I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas.’
Sloane opens her mouth, then closes it and bites her lip and looks at me guiltily.
‘What?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes. ‘Just say it. Spit it out.’
‘Why don’t you just say no? Walk away?’
