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1
“Get in the car, Jordana.”
I close my eyes and exhale. I hate when he calls me by my full name but stopped correcting him when it was clear after the first few weeks of dating that I was wasting my breath.“I’m not going to call you a boy’s name.”
“I’m in, I’m in—Wait, I forgot my water bottle!”
“You should have thought of that earlier. You’re always making us fucking late.”
“It’s two o’clock. You said to be ready at three.”
He climbs into the driver seat, and we pull out of the underground garage of the condo. Bryan slams his hand on the steering wheel. “Why would I say three o’clock? That doesn’t even make sense... All I ask is for you to be on time.”
I swear, he told me three o’clock, I know he did.
I hadn’t finished packing before he was tossing my bag in the trunk at two o’clock. I’m parched, and my lips are dry, but it’s not worth the fight. Not when we’re on the way to our “party for the wedding party,” where we’re expected to show up head over heels for each other.
I can’t believe we’re going to another one of these events. It’s overkill. We’ve already had two engagement soirees; how many does one couple need? With each party, my future grows darker, like this marriage is looming over me like a raincloud.
Most women light up when they speak about their weddings and can’t wait to marry the love of their life, then there are women like me. Not thrilled but willing. It’s not uncommon for industry tycoons and finance moguls to orchestrate marriages for their offspring. Technically, Bryan and I met in college, but our parents know each other and served on the same board of directors back in the day.
Much of our lives are decided before we’re even born. From the subject we major in to who we walk down the aisle to—in my case, Bryan Davenport. It’s a “smart move.” He’s fine. Neutral. Predictable. Sometimes he has a temper, and our sex life isn’t over-the-moon spectacular, but that’s nothing unusual. Our relationship is normal. Our parents set us up, and this is the natural progression of the plan. While I don’t always agree or like their choices, I love my family and know they have my best interest at heart. Most people marry for love—and most divorces happen within five years. Love is overrated. Life is meant to be filled with hobbies, like traveling, Netflix, and reading. When it comes to love, the book is always better.
“How was your day at work?” he asks, checking his emails while driving.
“It was good. Jennifer and I went out to lunch today.”
“Where did you go?”
“Waterhaus.” It’s one of the nicer restaurants in the area. Iwanted to take my coworker out to celebrate her two-year anniversary with the company we work for, H&H Holdings. Bryan Davenport Sr., a.k.a. my future father-in-law, is the CEO.
“Hm,” he tuts.Now what?“My parents aren’t paying for that lunch.” I resist rolling my eyes, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Every time he refers to H&H ashis parents, I internally cringe. God forbid a multimillion-dollar-parent company foot the bill on a couple salmon Caesar salads with dressing on the side.
My response is already on my tongue, but I’m careful not to cut him off. “I didn’t charge it to the company card, I paid for it out of pocket.”
“Well, do you think that’s the best use of our money?”
Is he fucking serious? Combined, we have more money than we could ever possibly spend in a lifetime. He’s all about living the lavish lifestyle until I’m the one swiping the credit card. I’ve regretted allowing him access to my accounts since the dayhemade me do it. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal, however, I didn’t realize he’d be scrutinizing every measly purchase.
“Who else went to lunch?”
“Just Jennifer and me.”
He mumbles, “Yeah, right . . .”
He’s in a bad mood. Ugh, it’s going to be a long weekend at the cabin—if you can call a sprawling hunting lodge on eighty acres a “cabin.”
My phone dings, I flip it over to see a text from Carl, a colleague on my team. Tapping the screen, I respond with our project update and let him know I won’t have great cell reception for the rest of the weekend and to contact Jennifer if he has other questions.
“Who are you texting?”
“Carl from work,” I mutter as my fingers tap out a message regarding the contract status for the Redding Group, a new H&H acquisition.
“Why’s he texting you?”
“He wanted to know where we left off with the Redding financials. Why? Are you worried about Carl?” It’s a slight jab, but Carlton is a colleague twenty years my senior who’s happily married, not that it matters.
“Hell no, I’m not worried about him! Why would you even say that? He could never give you what I can, and he knows it too.” He smirks.Gross.“What did you tell him?”
