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I don’t even know why I’m doing it. Like rebelling would get me to my financial freedom faster.

I still can’t believe Vito talked me into this. I still wasn’t completely on board with the idea of a fake marriage, let alone one with Cormac Quinn.

When he sauntered in with his light brown hairstyle in that sexy, effortless way, with his cocky smirk, and unfairly gorgeous face, it was satisfying to storm out of there. I didn’t get far. Vito reminded me about my debt and the urgency of the situation. He listed the jobs he had lined up as my alternative.

And then he presented Corm as my fastest and least painful option, because where am I going to find a husband this fast?

“It really is a blessing, Principessa,” he said, and I reluctantly returned to the table.

And I’ve been feeling like I lost ever since.

When I teased Corm to prove to Betsy I could deliver the illusion of a loving couple, my palm sensed the muscles under that suit, and something carnal awakened in me.

Stupid body completely betrayed my brain. And when he pulled me up and yanked me to him? Since when do I enjoy being manhandled like that? The dominance bleeds from his every move, every action, every word.

I love it.

I hate it.

I’m screwed.

I had to bail out of there, because being around him for an extended period is a hazard. And now I’ll have to live with him.

The whole encounter felt like a loss, and I hate losing. Feeling desperate—and a bit confused, thanks to my body’s reaction—I left with my head high, and with one last utterly stupid demand.

I don’t want any wedding. Let alone the large, lavish wedding I pretend to plan here.

But here I am, abusing the woman across from me with nonsense, and she doesn’t even flinch. Is my groom really willing to pay for all of this?

What a waste that would be. What exactly did Quinn tell her when he hired her? Will he even see these demands? God, the man infuriates me.

The Morrigan.

A goddess of unrest and war, she also foretells doom, death, or victory in battle. Well, I foretell that I’m going to win this one. Fuck him.

And why isThe Morriganthe only word he says in the hottest Irish accent? His parents came from Ireland, but he grew up here. When he said it, I felt the lilting quality of the soft sound down to my core.

I groan.

“Are you okay?” Cynthia pours me a glass of water and smiles, tossing her shiny, high ponytail extension over her shoulder. “Planning a wedding is nerve-wracking, but rest assured, we will help to alleviate a lot of the stress for you.”

“Will you get me another groom?” I blurt out, and she startles.

Shit. I guess she believes this is for real. I snatch the glass and gulp the water, emptying it.

She rushes around the table and sits beside me, tentatively patting my arm. “Tension between the couple is very common during the wedding planning. Do you want me to book you a session with our relationship coach?”

Jesus. Mary. Joseph. “Will Corm have to attend as well?” I bat my lashes.

“Ideally, yes. You’re going through this together.”

I bite my lip. Game on. “I’d very much like that. Will you make sure it gets scheduled as soon as possible?”

“Of course, Saar. Do you want to take a break?”

I wish I could be the fly on the wall when he finds out I booked this. He wouldn’t say “deal” like he’d tossed around during our last meeting.

“No, let’s continue. I’d like the groom’s party to wear superhero costumes. Do you think Corm is an Ironman? Or a Hulk?” I scrunch my lips to the side, feigning that I’m thinking hard. “Green would suit him well.”