Page 16 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Two seconds later — Ariana

B ut the longer I stood there—robe tied, pulse settling—the fury that had carried me this far started to thin out around the edges.

I couldn’t keep pretending I’d been some clueless victim in all of this.

The memories were hazy, but not gone. I’d smiled.

I’d laughed. I’d kissed him like I meant it.

I’d dragged him into that chapel like it was a dare and said vows like I believed them.

I hadn’t been hauled to the altar against my will—I’d marched there, glitter in my hair and tequila in my veins, fully complicit in my own chaos.

But still. He’d been more sober than me. Sober enough to know better.

And right now? That didn’t feel romantic. It felt like he should’ve stopped us—and he didn’t.

Why was he even still here? Leaning against the credenza, arms crossed, annoyingly broad shoulders casually eating up space like he belonged there. Like this wasn’t a total disaster.

I gripped my anger like a shield, because beneath it was something fragile and stupid and still breathing. Something like hope.

“There’s no way I’m waiting,” I snapped before he could say anything else insane.

“What if we make a deal?” he asked calmly.

A deal? Good. Perfect. He had no idea who he was dealing with. I was highly trained in the art of negotiation. Law school had taught me the strategy. The DA’s office had sharpened it to a blade. Men tried to out-maneuver me in court every single day. And they always left bleeding.

My eyes narrowed even further, which I honestly didn’t think was possible. “I don’t make deals with people who ambush me at a wedding altar.”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m only asking for forty-eight hours.”

I folded my arms. “To do what exactly?”

“Nothing you don’t agree to. No pressure. No games. Just time. Two days.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw heaven. “So I wait, and then what?”

“If you still want an annulment in forty-eight hours…” He paused, straightened. “I’ll give it to you. No arguments. No guilt. No passive-aggressive Elvis impersonator commentary.”

I opened my mouth to tell him no.

“And,” he added, “I’ll donate two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to your favorite charity.”

I blinked. I must have heard him wrong. “You’ll what?”

“Quarter of a million,” he said, like it was spare change. “To any nonprofit you name.”

My brain short-circuited. “Are you serious?”

“As our marriage certificate,” he said, deadpan. “You walk away, you get the annulment and the donation. No tricks. No loopholes. Just…give me the time.”

I stared at him. Hard. Because it was tempting. Of course it was tempting. But not because of the money.

No. It was because I knew exactly what charity I’d name.

The Guardian ad Litem program at the Legal Aid Society of Milwaukee.

My voice was softer when I said, “You’d give that much for forty-eight hours?”

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “Whatever charity you choose. Under your name.”

I hated him a little in that moment. Because he knew exactly where to hit me.

And because it worked.

I’d always been a volunteer. In high school and college. Pets, kids, elderly. I’d volunteered anywhere and everywhere they needed me. These days, I did a lot of pro bono work as well. But the Guardian ad Litem program was my real passion lately.

“I don’t trust you,” I said, crossing my arms tighter.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Just trust the contract I already drafted.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. “I had a feeling you'd want it in writing.”

I snatched it from his hand and scanned it. It was short but ironclad. Legal. Legally binding, in fact. Of course there were a few things I wanted to add to it.

“Where did you get this?”

He shrugged. “Let’s just say I was busy this morning before you woke up.”

I stared at him for a long moment. “You actually think you can change my mind in forty-eight hours?”

“I don’t know,” he said with maddening confidence. “But I think it’s worth a shot.”

I scoffed. “If I do this,” I said. “And it’s a huge if. This is charity work. I’d be doing it for orphans. ”

“I understand. Terribly noble of you.” He grinned, but there was something in his eyes that said he was playing a much longer game.

I glared at him. I wanted to scream. To throw something. Preferably at him. Instead, I said, “Fine. I’ll take your money. I’ll take your time. And then I’m going to take that smug look off your face when I walk away with both.”

I wanted to believe I was immune. That he had no chance. But as he turned to go—like he hadn't just dismantled my defenses with a single offer—I realized something horrifying.

He might’ve won the first round.

And I’d just given him two more.