Page 19 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

I drop my arms to my sides again and look at him. His expression is genuinely curious, head tilted slightly, his usual polished confidence replaced with something more approachable. “I’m not sure. I suppose I imagined it in a church and maybe even a party afterward.”

“I never pictured you as the traditional type.”

His words sting. Just because I didn’t grow up with anything traditional doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want it now. “Why do you think that?”

“You’re quiet, artistic, and… don’t take this the wrong way, different,” he says, leaning forward. “In a good way.”

I nod. “That doesn’t mean I dreamed about Elvis officiating my vows.”

“Hey, you chose him.”

I laugh, remembering telling him during our flight, but not thinking it would happen. “I didn’t think you’d be able to pull it off in a few hours. This is as dysfunctional as it gets, so why not have a story to go with it?”

“Exactly. If we’re doing this crazy shit together, let’s promise to at least have fun.” He stretches his hand out.

I look between his palm and his face. He wants to shake on it.

My muscles coil. This is what it is, a transaction, not a fairytale.

“Deal. Now let’s go get married.” I shake his hand quickly, knowing there’s no way I’ll change my mind.

I need the money for the house. I smile at the hostess, but she only gives me a half one back before smiling at Oliver like a love-sick puppy.

I guess I’ll have to get used to that for the next few months.

He’s handsome and charming. Women will want him, which gets me thinking of something we didn’t discuss, but we need to.

“As part of our marriage, we aren’t seeing anyone else, right?” His jaw tightens as he speaks, “No.”

His reaction surprises me, and I find myself needing clarity. “And this includes… casual partners?”

His face morphs into amusement. “Are you offering?”

He’s teasing me because he knows my brother wouldn’t allow it. Declan’s warned Oliver in front of me. It would risk his friendship, and I don’t want to ruin that.

“No chance. I’m just checking we're on the same page.”

He leans in really close and whispers, “If I want to get off, I have my hands.”

A shiver runs down my spine as his warm breath tickles my skin. A hot image flashes through my mind, but there’s no way I’m letting him know I’m picturing him naked. Instead, I wince and say, “TMI. Let’s get on with this before I lose my nerve.”

Spinning on my heel, I move toward the exit, stepping carefully onto the metal staircase, my hand gripping the warm railing.

From halfway down, I take in Las Vegas. Beyond the tarmac, the strip rises in the distance, and mountains frame the background.

As I reach the bottom step, I'm hit by the Vegas heat.

I immediately regret not wearing shorts and a top instead of my sweats.

But they were comfy, which is probably why I fell asleep on the plane.

I spot another black car waiting for us. Oliver opens the door for me, which surprises me because it seems genuine rather than a performance, and we slip inside.

“Where are we staying?” I ask once I’m buckled inside.

“The Bellagio.”

I recall the details from the Google search I did earlier, and it’s luxurious.

Travel was never something I allowed myself to dream about when I was younger.

When you’re bouncing between foster homes, you don’t waste time imagining far-off places; you’re too busy hoping the next house isn’t worse than the last. Dreams felt useless.

Even after I found good parents, the habit stuck.

It felt safer to keep my hopes small and within reach.

As we drive through the streets, I look out the window, feeling like I’ve stepped into another world.

It’s better than the pictures online. In the midday sun, the city feels alive, every building and sign practically glowing.

Neon lights and gigantic billboards surround us, there are huge screens showing ads for performers and shows, and even from here, I catch glimpses of fountains shooting up by the hotel doors.

Traffic crawls along, giving me time to scan the sidewalks, which are packed with tourists, street performers, and vendors. My eyes flick from one extravagant hotel to the next, each more surreal than the last, and I try to soak it all up.

“Have you been here before?” I ask, still captivated by the world outside the window.

“Once, for work,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making conversation.”

He doesn’t ask about my travels, and it doesn’t bother me. I know he’s aware I haven’t been anywhere.

We arrive at the hotel, and I find myself speechless.

The Bellagio is grand, with soft beige and cream tones, arched windows, a curved facade, and lush landscaping.

But the best feature has to be the lake in front.

I remember reading about the shows at the fountain at night and how captivating they are.

I didn’t realize last night that this would be where we would be staying, but now I’m hoping our room will have a view of it.

I wait for him to climb out, and before I can do the same, Oliver is there, offering his hand.

We walk inside, where I’m struck by the lobby’s extraordinary ceiling made up of a garden of hand-blown glass flowers in vibrant colors.

I welcome the air conditioning on my damp skin as I crane my neck, taking in all the details.

As we move to the front reception, I notice the same white and beige colors, glossy beige tiles, and patterned rugs with splashes of green cushions and artwork.

We’re called up, and the attendant, a polished man in his fifties with a perfectly fitted suit, greets us. “Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln.” My mouth opens to correct him, but I quickly shut it. In just a few hours, Lincoln will be my last name. Surprisingly, it doesn’t make me feel uneasy.

I’m in a foggy daze as we follow the attendant to the elevator and head straight to the top floor.

As we exit on the top floor, the attendant opens the room door, and I follow, my jaw dropping.

The suite is stunning, with the same color tones as downstairs but on a much bigger scale.

I slowly walk around, barely listening as the attendant rattles off instructions.

I hope Oliver is paying attention because I’m too distracted.

The far wall is all glass, revealing a panoramic view of the Vegas Strip.

The fountain below is mid-dance, each burst of water lit from beneath.

I walk closer, pressing my hand lightly to the window, awestruck.

From up here, the chaos of the city looks almost magical, like something out of a dream.

A rustle behind me draws my gaze back inside, I walk to the closest bedroom and that’s when I see it.

“Congratulations” is spelled out in red rose petals on a massive white duvet king bed that dominates the room.

Everything is so over the top, I’m getting dizzy as I continue walking through the suite. There are multiple bedrooms, TVs, bathrooms, a huge kitchen, and a lounge. But on the positive, we don’t have to share a room. I’m not ready to share a bed with Oliver.

The attendant leaves, and after the most chaotic day of my life, we’re finally alone.

I turn to him, catching him in an unguarded moment as he runs his hand through his hair, saying the first thing that pops into my head. “This seems a bit excessive for one night.”

“You deserve a nice place for our wedding night,” he says, his eyes locked on mine as he steps toward me.

I swallow, a lump forming in my throat. “What time are we getting married?”

He checks his watch. “In exactly four hours.”

Great... The blood drains to my feet. I grab a water bottle from the fridge, not caring if it's overpriced, and drink half in one go.

“I know how you feel.”

I look up at him, taking in his relaxed posture as he leans against the wall, and mumble, “I doubt that.”

“I’m serious. Do you think I was thinking about getting married any time soon?” He runs a hand over his jaw.

I shrug. “I don’t know. We don’t really hang out for me to know much about you.”

“Well, you will now.”

Heat rises to my cheeks. I look around. If he went to all this trouble, I can’t imagine what the wedding will look like. I walk to the cream fabric sofa, ready to relax and watch TV when there’s a knock on the door. “Are you expecting someone?” I ask. He's messing around on his phone.

“Yes,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate as he answers the door. My ears prick up when I hear female voices.

What is this? More wedding preparations? Hotel staff?

Who knows with Oliver. I smooth my clothes nervously.

“Oh, you must be Karley,” one of the two women who’ve walked in says like we’re old friends.

“Uh, yeah,” I reply, giving her a tight smile.

Who is she? I hope he’s not expecting her to be my bridesmaid. I would've told him to fly Evelyn out if I had known.

“We’re here to get you ready,” she says with a sympathetic smile. Obviously reading my confused expression.

“Get me ready?” I ask, trying to understand why he’s going to all this trouble for a fake marriage.

Oliver steps in front of me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “They’re here to help with your hair, makeup, and dress.”

I exhale. “I’ve never had my makeup professionally done before.”

“Well, enjoy. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Okay,” I say, a little shakily. “But where will you get ready?”

“I’ve planned to meet Cora.”

“Where is she staying?”

“She chose the Mandala Bay for her kids. It’s more family-friendly.”

His hands drop from my body, and I want to protest. His touch had been comforting in all this craziness.

Then he strides to the door and leaves the penthouse suite.

As soon as the door clicks shut, the women immediately start telling me what to do, including urging me to have an everything shower.

They instruct me to exfoliate, shave, and moisturize.

This preparation seems like a lot for a wedding night that won’t exist. I know that they don’t know about our arrangement, so I just follow their instructions.

After I’ve prepared every part of my body and come out in a robe, the hair and makeup artists get to work.

The makeup artist adds bronze shadows to make my eyes pop, and then finishes with a rosy lip stain to keep my request of a natural but polished look.

Meanwhile, the hairstylist transforms my usual messy hair into a classy bun.

“Will he like it?” I ask before I can stop myself. Why should I care what Oliver thinks? This isn’t real. Yet I find myself anxious for his approval anyway.

When I turn to the mirror, I gasp, barely recognizing myself. I’m amazed at how pretty I look. It’s me, but flawless.

The makeup artist hands me a lacy baby blue lingerie set. They told me it was for the something blue aspect of getting married. Which is a sweet gesture, regardless of this being a fake marriage.

I have a sinking feeling. I need to know. “Who chose this for me?” I ask in a shaky voice.

Please don’t say Oliver.

“Mr. Lincoln, of course,” the hairdresser says with a sweet laugh.

I close my eyes as I let the words settle.

Oliver chose this for me?

The idea of it is jarring, yet I find myself curious. Will it fit? Why did he choose this specifically? Was it another necessary prop, or did he actually think about how it would look on me?

I head to the bedroom and slip it on. When I’m dressed, I move slowly to the full-length mirror, admiring the way it accentuates my curves, showing off my hourglass figure. I gulp down air as I stare at myself. I look sexy. Surely, he isn’t expecting to see it.

A knock at the bedroom door startles me. “Come in,” I call, covering myself up with the robe.

“I have your dress.” The stylist walks in, and I gasp.