Page 3 of The Wrong Groom

“I know it’s not ideal,” Tristan begins, “but give it a chance. She might surprise you.”

I shoot him a baleful glare, which seems to slide right off of him. Tristan has always been unflappable, completely impervious to anyone else’s frustration. It’s one of the reasons he’s such a good leader. He can remain calm even when everyone around him is agitated. But right now, I wish he’d just fuck off.

“Even if it doesn’t work out, it’s only three years,” he says with a shrug.

Three years.

That was our late father Julian Thorne’s stipulation. In his will, he specified that each of us had to enter into a marriage with a woman of his choosing for a minimum time period of three years. Otherwise, we would forfeit our shares in the family’s company.

I’m not about to throw away everything I’ve worked for just to avoid it, but the thought of being tied down like this is suffocating. My father was inscrutable when he was alive, and now, I think I understand him less than I ever did.

How could he do this to us? To me?

“I get it, Gabe.” Tristan’s voice is steady. “You’re doing this for the family, for the company. But you can also make it work for you.”

Make it work for me? How? How can I make this work for me when I can’t even stomach the thought of it? When any reminder of it ruins my whole day?

My throat feels tight and constricted. The woman I’m supposed to marry, Alexis Beaumont, is ten years younger than me. My mother insisted that this wasn’t a problem, wasn’t scandalous, but I know better. She’s young, hopeful. She doesn’t want to be trapped in a marriage to some miserable widower with a daughter.

The whole farce is ridiculous. It makes me feel sick, and even though I know he’s being sincere, Tristan’s optimism feels like salt in an open wound.

Arguing would just keep the conversation rolling, though, and that’s the last thing I want—especially here, in the boardroom, with Tristan’s assistant and the FlashUp guys listening in. So rather than fuel the fire, I bite my tongue and shift in my seat, trying to push the discomfort aside.

“Let’s get back on track, shall we?” I lean forward, jolting my laptop out of its screensaver.

“Right. FlashUp.” Tristan clears his throat. “I don’t think we need to worry about the interface itself. The app works fine, and it’s user-friendly. If you ask me, the issue is the content.”

“Agreed,” Dominic says. “We don’t need some start-up moron to mess with the design. Especially not that moron.”

“If it’s content, then what are we supposed to do about that?” one of the FlashUp guys asks. “We have a broad array of stuff available on there already. Interviews, music videos⁠—”

“Nothing that other apps don’t have,” I counter. “Nothing that can make people delete TikTok and move over to us.”

Tristan points his pen in my direction. “Precisely that.”

“So we need something new,” Beckett says. “Like what?”

Silence descends over the room as we all consider the question. I cast around for ideas, but my mind feels like static, like I’m trying to tune into a channel that just won’t come in clearly.

The quiet is broken by my phone’s ringtone, a normally unobtrusive chime that sounds unnaturally loud in the stillness. I grit my teeth, cringing.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Tristan waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

I glance down at the screen. It’s Margaret Collins, my daughter’s nanny. Margaret is pretty much the backbone of my household. She’s been working for me for several years now. She doesn’t live in my house, but she spends plenty of time there, looking after Peyton while I’m at work and helping keep things in order. When she calls, I answer, no matter what.

I gesture to the phone. “Anyone mind if I take this?”

“Go ahead,” says Tristan. “We can take a couple of minutes, grab coffee.”

There’s a flurry of activity around me as everyone gets to their feet, stretching and pacing over to the wet bar in the corner of the room. I take the call.

“Margaret? Everything okay?” I ask.

“Everything’s fine, Mr. Thorne,” she answers brightly. “I have Peyton here—just picked her up from school. She has something she wants to tell you.”

“Oh, yeah?” A smile comes to my face, unbidden. “Let’s hear it.”