Page 10

Serena
Ihang up my phone and stow it in my purse, allowing myself a small smile. Maybe all hope isn’t lost. Yes, our conversation had been a little awkward, but at least Archer is trying. Not because of me specifically - I’m not that delusional anymore - but for his wife and this situation we’ve found ourselves in.
After a relapse this morning moping in the honeymoon suite until the late check-out, I’m now resolved to doing everything I can to make this marriage a true one. I just need to show him how amazing of a wife I’ll be. Easy, right?
Even though I’ve never been in a long-term relationship. Or have the first clue about his interests, his likes and dislikes, how he spends his days…
I take a deep breath, then another, until the panic recedes. I can do this. I have a plan. And I’ve already made progress. I’m moving into his place. Item one on my checklist accomplished.
I step out of the cab in front of my building and lug my overnight bag over my shoulder, thankful that Mackenzie thought to pack it for me. Otherwise, I’d be coming home in a wedding dress. At least the concierge at the hotel agreed to hold it for me until I can figure out what to do with it. It’s not like I plan on wearing it again.
“Miss Montague,” Raul greets me as I enter my building, holding the door open. “Your father is upstairs.”
My father? I did what he asked and married into the Bishop family. What more does he want?
“Thank you,” I murmur as he calls the elevator for me, appreciating the heads up.
I’ve composed myself by the time I reach my apartment, finding Julia, my father’s personal assistant, and a man I don’t recognize along with Dad.
His lips purse for a moment, his telltale sign of annoyance, before he clears his face, pasting on a jovial smile. “Sweetheart,” he booms, crossing the living room to give me a brief hug.
I return it, wishing he’d explain himself, but he merely looks at me, waiting for me to initiate. “What brings you by?” If I were to word the question in any kind of accusatory way, likewhy are you in my apartment unannounced without my permission, I’d hear no end of it.
“Well, now that you’re married, it’s time to sell this place.”
I blink, unsure I heard him right. “Excuse me?”
The grin briefly slides from his face, the message clear that he doesn’t appreciate my tone, but I honestly can’t help it. He just said he’s selling my home.
“I planned on staying here after my marriage.” He doesn’t know that I changed my mind after marrying a different brother.
He casually waves off my statement. “Nonsense. The Bishops have plenty of real estate in the city. If you don’t want to live with Archer, they can find somewhere else for you.”
“Or I could just stay in the apartment I’ve lived in for the last five years.” The words slip out unbidden, but in my defense, I thought it was mine. He bought me this place after I graduated from college. I’d assumed he’d gifted it to me, but apparently, I was wrong in that assumption.
“Don’t make a scene,” he grits out, his smile so at odds with his tone as he pulls me over to the corner away from where the unknown man is measuring my living room from wall to wall and Julia is taking photos of my framed art.
“I’m not,” I whisper, “but you’ve caught me off guard here.”
“Sweetie, I can’t keep paying your way. You’re a grown woman.”
I instinctively shrink back. “I just thought-”
“You thought what? You’d get to use Daddy’s credit card forever?”
My tongue seems to swell, unable to form any defense. He’s acting like I spend frivolously. The only thing I generally pay extra for is clothing, but that’s because he insists I need a new dress for each event I attend. Heaven forbid I’m photographed in the same outfit twice.
His face softens, temper from just a moment ago gone. “Come on. I’ll even let you keep some things from your closet.”
Somethings? Implying that my clothes aren’t my own. I wasn’t aware all these conditions existed.
I follow him mutely to my bedroom, which appears to have been ravaged by wolves by the way everything is strewn about. Julia enters behind me, giving me a sympathetic smile.
There are sticky notes with numbers on all my belongings, and it’s not until I realize the designer items have higher numbers that I make the connection they’ve appraised the perceived worth of all my things. He’s not just selling my apartment, but everything in it too.
Then again, he essentially sold me off to the Bishops. And I’m still unsure as to why that stipulation was even part of the deal. Dad has plenty of connections without needing Harold Bishop’s too. But you don’t tell Dad no.
Ever.