Page 42 of The Contract Marriage

“And you look like my king.” I smile, running my eyes up and down the sight of him back in formal clothes. Dressed or undressed, the man is simply devastating. How many women know that underneath his perfect tux is a perfect six-pack?

He raises my hand and kisses the knuckles. “That’s what I aim for.”

I check my phone. The videographers I hired are streaming the wedding and reception live, just as instructed. I smirk at Brielle’s tight mouth and searching gaze. Looking for me?

She must be furious that I’m not there to be mortified as she snatches Tyler from my grasp and marries him in front of the crowd. But she shouldn’t be so upset. At least Tyler showed up, like he should, in a rented tux that’s serviceable enough.

“Let’s go,” I say, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow.

A gleaming white limo leaves from the Point Dume mansion. Liam’s eyes are narrowed, his mouth tight.

“You seem more anticipatory than me,” I say, running a soothing hand along his tense forearm.

“I’ve always wanted to punch Tyler. But that wouldn’t be politic. So this is the second-best option. Can’t believe that bastard conspired with Brielle to humiliate you.”

“I’m sure Brielle’s the one who instigated it.” Liam was stunned when I told him what Brielle and Tyler planned to do at the wedding. Brielle even insisted that the wedding invitations only state: Ms. Desmond and Mr. Mercer without the first names. I went along with it after displaying much reluctance when Brielle, then later Tyler, insisted that it’s more elegant this way. Liam couldn’t believe it, but I told him it’s a known pattern—Brielle flutters her lashes, presses her boobs against the guy, and boom, he ditches me for her.

“They must be absolutely blind. And deaf. And definitely dumb. Whatever the case, it’s disgusting,” Liam said, his voice dripping with contempt. “I feel sorry for Tyler’s brain cells. Must be terrible, being stuck inside an idiot like him.”

The limo fights the traffic to Beverly Hills. I picked out one of the most expensive hotels—since Hugh said he’d pay, probably to maintain proper appearances. Or maybe he already knew back then that the bride swap would happen, so he didn’t mind splurging on Brielle’s wedding. After all, she’s the one he treats like a daughter; I’m just the piggy bank.

“Look, they just exchanged rings. How cute.” Not the kind of rings I would’ve chosen, and certainly nothing as incredible as what Liam gave me. But Brielle beams like she just won a billion-dollar jackpot. Guess the last two decades haven’t bought her good taste.

Liam leans over to glance at the screen. He smells of soap and something clean and male. I surreptitiously inhale and pretend not to be affected.

“Clown show,” he remarks.

“Yep. That’s the point.”

I can’t wait until Brielle realizes she’s fallen into my trap by being too clever for her own good. She thought she could trample me any time without consequence. Now she’s going to pay.

And she’ll know what kind of consequences await people like her, who covet things that don’t belong to them.

The limo doesn’t arrive in Beverly Hills until the crowd’s moved to the outdoor pool for an open cocktail hour. The driver pulls in and a uniformed staff member rushes to open the door.

Liam steps out and extends a hand. I look at it, then smile up at him with gratitude. He’s always extending a hand to me, never asking any questions.

I still don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such support, or how I can really compensate him. Regardless, I take his fingers in mine and climb out. After smoothing my skirt, I loop my arm around his.

“Are you ready to go get ‘em, Mrs. Kingswood?”

“Oh, I’ve been ready for twenty years.” I press a quick kiss on his cheek because that seems the least of what he deserves. “Thank you.”

His eyes soften. “No need. It’s my duty as your husband to back you up.”

My heart knocks against my chest as I hear something he hasn’t said: You’ll never have to fight alone, Olivia. Except I don’t want him to walk my path—it’s too cold, too ugly.

“Let’s go.” I turn my head, my chin raised.

We walk together, our heads held high, like we own the place. The hotel staff recognize me from numerous appointments I’ve had. Deena tried to butt in and insist on decorations and setup she thought were best, but the hotel staff shot her down. Unlike her, the hotel has standards. They aren’t serving Opus One with the caviar, even if she screams her demands.

Sure enough, the cocktail hour is progressing with a proper menu and pairing and SoCal glitz. A hint of nouveau riche, but that’s expected from the likes of Hugh and Deena, both desperate to fit in.

“Olivia! Didn’t realize you’d be coming so late. What a pleasant surprise,” a man says. A little too friendly, a little too smooth. He owns a Lamborghini dealership in the city and is good friends with Hugh, who has never seen a Lamborghini he didn’t want to buy. The only thing in the way is the trust’s limit—although it technically gives him a million, ten percent is automatically set aside for my use.

After Deena and Brielle burn however much they feel entitled to, there isn’t enough left to buy a new Lambo every year.

“Hello, Winston.” Despite his words, he isn’t surprised. Hugh must have made up some plausible story to explain my absence.