Page 113 of Morally Black Betrothal

I toyed with the ends of my hair, curled in the ponytail, then pulled them forward to examine them in the streetlights that flashed past the window. “Look at that. I do need a haircut.”

Brendan’s hand closed around mine and pulled it away from my hair, taking my gaze with him. “Stop. You’re perfect.”

I looked at our connected hands, then back up at him. “I am plenty of things, but perfect is definitely not one of them.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then shut it before he nodded. “Stunning, then. And that includes your hair.”

“It’s not about my hair, though, is it?”

I turned to the window as we passed the Museum of Fine Arts, then a wash of buildings near Northeastern. Tears pricked again, and I hated myself for them. Hated myself for listening. Hated myself for letting them get to me.

“Simone.”

No. I would not cry over these stupid men and their stupid comments.

“Simone.”

I sucked in a breath. Two fingers slipped under my chin as Brendan turned me back to face him. And I couldn’t help the tear that tracked down my cheek.

“Fuck them,” he said quietly. “Fuck every word out of their insolent, ungrateful mouths. They don’t deserve tears from you, baby. Not a one.”

The fingers at my chin drifted up and traced my jaw. After a glance at Anthony, Brendan pressed a button to raise the privacy screen between us. Did he want to prevent the man from hearing his kindness? Or did he want to make sure I knew none of this was fake?

My heart ached for the latter.

He reached down and unfastened my seat belt, then tugged me closer. “Listen to me when I tell you that it wouldn’t matter if youwereperfect; my poisonous family would still find a way to tear you down. It’s no excuse, but just know that it’s not about you. It’s about them and their miserable lives.”

He guided my head to lie on his shoulder and started stroking my hair.

It was unexpected.

It felt so good.

And it made me cry even more.

I swiped at another tear. “Maybe you should be ashamed of me. I certainly don’t belong in your world. You could have picked someone who knows you or who at least knows what they’re doing.”

He sat me back up, dark green eyes meeting my blue. “We’ve been over this.” Then he frowned. “This isn’t just about a few shitty comments, is it?” Something else appeared to dawn on him as he looked me over. “Why didn’t you buy something new? Not that you don’t look incredible in this dress, but it’s still?—”

“Used,” I finished with a hiccup. “You knew?”

He tipped his head ruefully. “Luxury is what we do, angel. Yeah, I knew. Couldn’t care less, but I knew.”

I sighed. “I had a little trouble shopping today. Ruth thought I should go to Neiman’s, but I really wanted to do it alone. Prove to myself, I guess, that I could at least handle one small dinner without an army behind me. But when I went to the stores she recommended—some of the ones your company owns—no one would…” I gulped back a breath as my words grew shaky. This was harder than I thought. “No one would help me.”

I choked back a sob, full of shame. God, this was embarrassing. It was horrible when it had happened and somehow even worse to admit out loud. That even to some random shopgirls, I wasn’t up to this job.

The car pulled up to Brendan’s building, but neither of us got out. It took a few seconds for me to realize he was vibrating with tension. With barely concealed rage.

“How?” he asked after what seemed like several minutes. “How could that happen?”

I stared at my shoes, truly mortified. “It was pretty simple, actually. I walked into five different stores, and every single time, the clerks took one look at my crappy jeans and sneakers and either snubbed me, ignored me, or insulted me outright. Itdidn’t matter how nice I was or how much money I said I could spend. They d-didn’t care.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?” I fairly snapped. “The fact that your rich brothers saw right through me or the fact that your employees literally turned down my money because they thought I couldn’t handle their wares? Either way, it shakes out to the same thing: that I’m a terrible fit for this arrangement.”

“Stop saying that,” he growled. “Jesus, Simone. Stop…I don’t know. Doubting yourself. Putting yourself down. I don’t want to hear it.”