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Eight
Gabriel
“Everything’s all set?”I ask the lawyers assembled in my office as they read over the final paperwork that will chain Clementine to me for the next year.
“Yes, sir,” Patrick tells me. “The marriage contract is ironclad.”
“Good. That will be all.”
After they’re gone, I stare at her dainty signature on the papers. I suspect even if I had chosen my own bride, the details would have remained the same. A simple prenup with an added addendum for all the monies Clementine will have once we separate.
It’s crazy that we already know the date of our divorce before we even say our vows.
Beside the expensive legal documents sits her single page of self-made demands. I pick it up and skim over her contract, reading through her sexual no-no’s and wonder if she’d be this way with anyone she’d marry.
I doubt it.
She has a spark inside her that could start an inferno, if I’m not careful. I see it flare every time I’m around her. It almost amuses me, in a sick way, when I see her getting all riled up at something I say. When you’ve bent enough people to your will, it’s like discovering a rare tech gadget when you come across someone who won’t.
It makes me want to keep pissing her off. It makes me want to show her all the things she’s missing out on—my tongue, my fingers, my dick.
But, this isn’t a game. I need a wife, not a playmate. Clementine won’t be my bride because I want to fuck her.
So, I pick up my Meisterstück platinum-coated pen, trying not to smile when I remember her cat pen, and sign on her dotted line.
Instead of having my personal assistant make sure she receives it—because what’s the fun in that—I grab my cell, scroll through my contacts and bring up her name.
“Come meet your husband,” I text her.
“I’m at work,” is her swift reply.
Her work ethic is admirable, but I can’t wait until she won’t need her job and can meet me on a whim when I so demand it. An extensive background check into Clementine revealed all the basic details of her work resume. Her cake making job—although cute—could never pay her what she’ll be getting from me. She could work all her life and never come close to what she’s being offered.
“What time will you be off?” I answer her back.
“Soon.”
Soon? That’s not a timeline I can deal with. My hands immediately gravitate to my temples, and I press the pads of my fingers into the throbbing skin. Not even married yet and already my soon-to-be wife stresses me out.
I call for my driver. “Stefan, bring the car around.”
I stand and shrug on my Westmancott suit jacket before securing the paper that’s so important to her into a manila envelope.
The sun dips below the horizon just a touch when I step onto the front porch of the estate and watch the black Bentley Mulsanne drive up the cobblestone circular drive. Stefan parks, steps out, and then opens the back door for me.
I slide into the leather backseat, placing my phone on the center console. “Take me to Let Them Eat Cake.”
His blue eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t question. “Yes, sir.”
He pulls away from the oversized mansion.
My grandfather had great taste. I have better. I like the finer things life has to offer. Some may call me pretentious, but I don’t like to put a label on things.
When we arrive, of course, she’s not there. Everything has to be as difficult as possible when it comes to her.
“She’s at the Henderson/Miller wedding across town at the Hilton. Delivering their cake,” the older woman behind the counter informs me with curiosity in her dark eyes. “Are you wanting to order a wedding cake? Clementine is my best. I’m the owner, Dena.”
“Yes, I guess I’ll be needing one.” I smile, doubting Clementine will want to make ours. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch with her.”
