Page 129

I thought I had some grasp on who she was, some understanding of her character. Yet she’s spent my money as if she’d been born to wealth instead of supposedly loathing it for years. To see how easily she slips into the role of lovestruck fiancée, as well as how quickly she sheds it once we’re in the privacy of my car or plane, is unnerving. So is realizing the extent that she’s using me. As much as I am her.
Which probably makes us perfect for each other, or at least for the next year we’re trapped in this arrangement.
When we’re alone, she slips into silence and all but ignores me. The first time it happened, it struck me as petty. But as it continued, over and over every time we were alone, I started to slip back into the past, into a tiny, stuffy room and my mother staring at the wall, ignoring her child in favor of reminiscing about her lost lover.
The lover who had given her five thousand euros when she’d told him she was pregnant and then abandoned her.
The more the past overshadowed my present, the terser I got with Juliette, until we were both practically snarling at each other on the few occasions we talked. The only thing that still lingered was that damned sexual heat. Every time Juliette placed her hand on my arm, dressed in gowns that made her understated beauty shine, I wanted to hide her away, to snap at the men leering at her that she was taken.
Nights have been the hardest. I wake up with a throbbing need pounding its way through my body and phantom moans rippling in my head. I’ve kept it under control so far. Easy to do when she’s been spending her nights elsewhere.
But when she’s just next door...
I curl my fingers into a fist and let my nails bite into my palm.
Just two more weeks, I remind myself.
After tonight, we’ll fly to France for a two-week honeymoon to keep up appearances. I’ve booked us suites in Paris and on the river cruise to keep us apart as much as possible when we’re alone. When we return to the States, the spotlight on our relationship will die down and we’ll go our separate ways for the rest of our farce of a marriage.
We just have to make it through the ceremony first. Juliette’s played her part well so far, at least in public. But I won’t feel completely settled until she’s saidI doand the countdown to my owning Drakos North America free and clear has officially begun.
I watch as the guests below start to drift toward the beach and the rows of ivory chairs lined up on either side of the aisle. I heard nothing but compliments as guests were welcomed into the foyer of my mansion and escorted into the backyard for preceremony cocktails. There’ve been no whispers about the will, no speculation about this being an arrangement. The only ugly stories I’ve seen are the ones theorizing that Juliette is marrying me for my money.
Which, I remind myself grimly, she is. My money and a house.
Unfair for me to feel angry about that. I made the offer of the house. But her asking for money took the image I had of her as a feisty but independent reporter and dismantled it until all I was left of was a woman who, sadly, was just like everyone else.
I had one moment on the flight home from Rêve Beach when I wondered if I was judging too harshly. My mother’s absence, both in life and death, had left a gaping hole. As a child, I had hoped the hole might be filled with family, namely my father and brother. When both of those failed, the hole widened until I felt like an empty shell.
A shell that only started to feel complete when I made my first million. When I experienced satisfaction at realizing what I had accomplished on my own. Pride at finally being recognized for what I had achieved. I didn’t need love or family. In my experience, those things were fleeting, unreliable.
Juliette had experienced the same loss, the same struggles over the years. She had reached out and grabbed an opportunity with both hands, just as I had.
Yet as I watched her go through the same motions, it seemed...hollow.
Then the bills for the wedding started to roll in. The overblown spending turned my discomfort to antipathy. Yes, I told her to spend. I have the money. I indulge.
But even this is excessive for me.
I glance at the arch at the end of the orchid-lined aisle, draped in gauzy white fabric and wrapped with the same lights strung up in the trees. The only bill that didn’t cross my desk was for her wedding dress. A designer probably donated a gown for the chance to be seen at what one news outlet dubbed the most anticipated wedding of the decade.
I move away from the window and walk to the mirror on the far side of my room. The tuxedo, a dark navy with a black satin collar and matching bow tie, are hand-stitched and fit perfectly. Everything is going according to plan.
So why, I wonder as I stalk back over to the window and shove my hands into my pockets,am I still unsatisfied?
The door opens behind me.
“Guests are being directed to their seats.”
Rafael joins me at the window in a matching tux with a slim tie. My eyes are drawn to a bear of a man stuffed into a suit moving along the edges of the crowd. Anger stirs, but I squelch it. I’m not wasting emotions on him.
“Michail came.”
Rafe leans forward and watches him. “I thought he declined.”
“He did.”
I watch as he approaches Alessandra. The smile disappears from her face when she sees him. Those two have a history. I’m not sure what it involves, although I can make plenty of guesses as I watch her say something that turns his frown into a glower before she whirls around in a swirl of emerald silk and stalks off.