Page 24 of The Forbidden Bodyguard

Not knowing what to expect is giving me enormous anxiety. Is he planning to propose? Will he shove a ring on my finger and have some official there to marry us on the spot?

If he did, would I never return to my penthouse?

Then he won’t touch you.

We both know he couldn’t stop Tony touching me if he were my husband. He even said so himself.

If that happens, I’ll be trapped in that world until I think it’s safe to ask for a divorce.

And if he won’t give it to me?

I zone out as a tear slides down my face.

The weight of this is so heavy, and I can’t tell anyone.

Wiping my cheeks and pulling myself together, I focus back on my schedule and cringe at the word count I need to meet for my publisher.

I could use the news of my engagement to get an extension. Let’s face it, my writing craft needs improving, and right now I can barely focus.

Most women getting married would be filling their calendars with facials and manicures, fitness plans and dress shopping.

Dad has stolen that magical moment from me.

If I do get out of the marriage alive, I’ll always be a divorced woman. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but at least other women married someone they a) knew b) weren’t terrified of c) weren’t sure they’d leave the marriage in a box afterward and d) loved or at least liked the man.

A lot of assumptions there, but for the most part I know I’m right.

God, I hate you, Dad.

I Google how to put on thirty pounds in four days and wonder if I shave my head and eat fatty foods so my skin breaks out if Tony would reject me.

That’s when it hits me.

Does he even know what I look like? Or is it irrelevant and he just wants to punish my father for the money he owes?

I’m a pawn in their game.

I can’t believe I used to think it was romantic that a bad alpha would force the heroine to marry him then fall in love with him in a romance novel. One dominant kiss after another.

Not this time.

This time the bad guy is my father.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DECLAN

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I’m going to need to find a gym close by because sitting around Stella’s penthouse all day while she writes is all we seem to be doing.

I’ve had three coffees and helped myself to four chocolate chip cookies from the jar in the kitchen. I’m not sure, but I think they’re homemade. Unlikely. They’re probably delivered in a fancy box each week.

My body is restless, and that’s not a feeling I’m used to.

I step out onto the spacious balcony, and the cool, crisp air bites my skin. I enjoy it. I’m going crazy pacing the house and trying to understand Stella’s motivations for marrying.

It is none of my business, and aside from doing my job well, I don’t know why I care.