Page 111 of Morally Black Betrothal

Owen’s face told that he was done joking.

I turned to Simone. “Wait for me in the car?”

“Of course.” Her shy smile lit up this dank house as she allowed Jenkins to help her into her green coat, also pretty and clearly secondhand. Probably vintage.

“Until we meet again,” Owen called after her, in a tone that was more insidious than friendly.

I wanted to strangle him too.

“What?” I bit out. “What the fuck could you possibly want, other than to apologize to her.”

Owen snorted as if the very idea of remorse was amusing. “She’ll get over it. But I don’t care about her. Yet, anyway. You, however, are my brother.”

“When did that start mattering to you?”

“Come on.”

He had a point. Owen and I weren’t best friends, but we were brothers. Being at the top of a notoriously cutthroat industry, every member of the Black family was acutely aware that others were always trying to take what we had. The only people we could trust, even a little, were each other.

At least as far as we could throw each other.

“Something’s not right,” Owen said. “You can fake it with the others, but not with me. What are you doing with her? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Did it ever occur to you that we’re just in love?”

Even I couldn’t help but cringe. I sounded like a fool. Not to mention completely unlike myself.

“Fuck off. Is she pregnant?”

“You already asked me that.” I pushed him away. “She’s not pregnant, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, it’s got to be something. You know her for like five minutes and suddenly you, the guy who thinks being spontaneous requires a two-week head start, are getting married? Is it blackmail?”

“Nobody makes me do anything I don’t want to do,” I said through gritted teeth.

“You showed up here.”

“And now I’m leaving. Case in point.”

Owen huffed. “Whatever she has on you, we can make this go away. Everyone’s got a price.”

He had no idea.

“She doesn’t have anything on me. And the prenup is airtight. But…”

“But what?”

Fuck. I could tell he wasn’t buying a single excuse, and the problem with the second-oldest Black brother was that he was like a dog with a bone. I’d leave, and he’d do everything he could to pry into my secrets. Hire a P.I. Bug my house. Hack my phone.

His determination knew no end.

So, I made a decision and prayed it was the right one.

“If I tell you the truth, will you swear not to tell anyone? Not Dad, not Ronan, not Shea—fuckin’ no one. Got it?”

Owen leaned closer, interest gleaming in his dark eyes. “Of course, brother. Anything you need.”

It was a little too easy. But he had to know. Otherwise, he’d find out a different way, and I’d be truly fucked.