Page 3 of My Horrible Arranged Marriage (Bancroft Billionaire Brothers #20)

MINA

T he sun was a knife slashing through the crack in my blinds, slicing straight through my skull. “Ow,” I whimpered and pulled the blanket over my head, curling tighter into myself.

Everything hurt. My mouth was dry, my stomach was sour, and my head was pounding in that sharp, merciless way that told me I’d had at least three too many the night before. Shit, more like five. Or seven. I honestly didn’t remember the details.

It was probably better that way.

I knew what I needed to fix this horrible hangover, but I didn’t have the strength or willpower to get out of bed. Regret flooded through me as reality rolled in. This was what I did. I was the partying princess.

Last night wasn’t the first time I’d made a complete ass of myself after a few too many drinks. Flashes of the night before flickered through my mind like a bad movie I couldn’t turn off. The champagne tower collapsing. The horrified gasps. My father’s grip on my arm. Louis’s disappointed eyes.

God, I’d done it again.

I remembered snatching those first tequila shots from the waiter’s tray after Amelia mentioned Sampson. Just hearing his name had been enough to send me spiraling. I still couldn’t handle hearing his name without wanting to drink myself into oblivion.

What else? There was that guy my father tried to introduce me to. What was his name? Alan? Adam? Something with an A. I remembered cutting him off mid-introduction to announce I had to pee. Classy, Mina. Really showing your finishing school education there.

I groaned and pressed my palms against my eyes. The pressure made the room stop spinning for a moment. The memory of my father’s face filled with the disappointment I was so used to seeing lately made me curl tighter into myself.

I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I’d been the good daughter. Straight As, charity work, the perfect society princess. I’d been engaged to the perfect man. I’d planned the perfect wedding.

And then Sampson had blown it all up.

A knock came at the door, splitting the fragile silence. “Go away,” I croaked.

I heard the door creak open anyway.

“For someone who begged for death last night, you sure are bossy this morning.” Tori’s voice filled the space, way too bright for my shredded nerves.

I didn’t uncover my face, but I heard the clink of a glass being set on the nightstand, the crinkle of a plastic bottle, and the soft thump of a plate.

“Water. Gatorade. Toast,” she announced. “One hour until your dad gets home. If you have even an ounce of self-preservation left, I suggest you get your shit together.”

I groaned, peeking one bloodshot eye out from under the blanket.

Tori stood by the side of my bed, hands on her hips, looking maddeningly fresh.

Her short blonde hair was up in the usual ponytail.

Her green eyes were bright and shiny and she wore a pair of shorts and a pretty pink blouse.

She looked like the picture of high society, despite the fact she was technically staff. Meanwhile, I was death incarnate.

“I hate you,” I muttered, trying to prop myself up on an elbow.

“You hate yourself,” she corrected with a smirk, grabbing one of the pieces of toast off the plate and dropping into the plush armchair by the window. “And honestly, who could blame you?”

I took a careful sip of Gatorade, the tangy taste making my eyes squint and my body shudder.

I winced but drank more, ignoring the way the room tilted slightly.

I hated Gatorade. It was gross. Colored water.

Tori crunched on her stolen toast and watched me with those eyes that saw too much.

She wasn’t judging me, but I did think there was a hint of pity in her eyes.

“This is so nasty,” I complained.

“Sorry it doesn’t have vodka in it. Now drink.”

I did as she said. A full-body shudder rolling through me as I did. I wanted the toast, but I also didn’t want anything in my stomach. Things were dicey. And while the Gatorade helped the cotton mouth, it was doing nothing for my sour stomach.

“You were a disaster last night,” she said around a bite. “Not even a sexy disaster. Just a regular one.”

“Gee, thanks,” I rasped.

“I’m just saying.” She shrugged casually.

“I don’t need this right now,” I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut.

“You do need this,” she said, waving the toast at me. “You need a little reality check. And some Advil. And a shower. I can smell the liquor seeping from your pores.”

I believed her.

“I’m guessing my dad is somewhere lurking, waiting to lecture me,” I muttered.

Tori shrugged, brushing a crumb off her knee. “Yeah, probably. But he seemed different last night.”

I snorted. “Different? You mean more pissed than ever.”

“No, not like that. He was pacing his study. You know how he gets when he’s cooking something up.”

I frowned, slumping back against the pillows. “He’s always cooking something up. Looking for the next big investment. A way to make another billion dollars. Shopping for a new yacht. Eyeballing a new private jet.”

Tori shook her head. “I don’t think so. Besides, he’s still waiting on the yacht he ordered last year to be finished.”

“Tori, you and I both know my father schemes all day, every day. It’s how we have all of this.” I attempted to gesture around my massive bedroom but could only muster a weak flap of my arm.

“This felt bigger. He was doing that thing where he mutters to himself and actually replies. Like the whole conversation plays out in his head.”

I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to think about my father pacing and plotting and getting ideas .

Because when Hectar Duvall got ideas, they usually ended with me in some kind of uncomfortable dress at some kind of miserable event, smiling for people I hated. Or defending a piece of shit ex-fiancé.

“I don’t care,” I muttered. I took another cautious sip of Gatorade. “He’ll probably brag about his latest toy soon enough.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I think he’s got a plan.”

I rolled my eyes, immediately regretting the movement as my head throbbed. “He always has a plan.”

“This one’s about you.”

“They’re all about me.”

“Yeah, but usually it’s, like, which gala you need to show your face at. Or who you need to pretend to like for business. This feels personal.”

I sighed, staring up at the ornate ceiling.

The tiny chandelier hanging above my bed swayed gently in the air-conditioning draft.

My suite was massive—ridiculously massive—a thousand square feet of polished wood floors, velvet chaise lounges, and heavy, expensive curtains.

My closet was the size of a Manhattan apartment.

No, bigger. I could have fit an entire family of four in here and still had room for a minibar.

Once upon a time, it had made me feel special. Now it just made me feel trapped.

“If you’re right, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway. He’s probably pissed he can’t ship me off to boarding school. He can’t ground me. So, he’s trying to figure out what to do with his disaster of a daughter.”

I’d pulled these kinds of stunts before.

I did try and curb my ways. I thought I was ready to settle down.

But ever since my split from my fiancé earlier this year, shit had gone off the rails.

I changed everything about myself to be the perfect wife.

I had actually thought I was going to get married and have a family.

My father and Sampson made me believe that was my future.

And then bam. The rug had been pulled out from under me. Although that was on me, apparently. I could have just accepted my piece of shit future husband for the asshole he was and married him. That’s what everyone thought I should do.

If things had gone differently and we’d gotten married like we were supposed to, I’d be in my new home with my new husband by now.

We would have taken our whirlwind two-month long honeymoon to the south of France and spent the summer on his yacht back here in New York.

We could have bought the house in the Hamptons like we talked about.

We talked about having a condo in Miami and another in Cancun.

My days were going to be spent on beaches with a cocktail in my hand with my gorgeous husband beside me.

That was the dream. That’s what I was promised.

But no. Instead, he had to go and cheat on me with my best friend.

Would anyone be able to get past that betrayal?

I knew I couldn’t. Everyone in my life told me I should because the prize, Sampson, was worth the trouble.

Sampson would settle down eventually. If I could just hold out and let him get it out of his system, I could have the dream.

Fuck that. I had no intention of sitting around and waiting for my husband to finish working his way through every willing slut in New York.

Gross. No thanks.

“Eat your toast and then get out of this room,” Tori said. “You need sunshine. And coffee.”

“I don’t want to get out of bed,” I muttered.

“You’ll feel better,” she said. “Take a shower. Wash away the cobwebs. I’ll have your coffee ready.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, forcing myself to sit up fully. The room spun for a moment before settling. “But I’m not promising to be pleasant about it.”

“When are you ever?” Tori laughed, standing up and brushing toast crumbs from her shorts. “I’ll meet you downstairs in thirty.”

After she left, I dragged myself to the bathroom, wincing at my reflection. Mascara smudged under my eyes, lipstick smeared across one cheek, hair tangled in a rat’s nest. I looked like I’d been dragged through a vacuum hose backward after a three-day bender.

The hot shower helped. I stood under the spray until my skin turned pink, washing away the stench of alcohol and poor decisions. By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, I almost felt human again.

I pulled on a pair of linen shorts and an oversized white button-down, leaving my damp hair loose around my shoulders. No makeup. My skin needed to breathe. Besides, who was I trying to impress? The gardener? The staff?

I walked into the kitchen and found Tori with her iPad in hand, already getting to work.

“You look marginally less dead,” she observed, handing me a mug of coffee.

“Thanks,” I said dryly, taking a careful sip. The rich, bitter liquid hit my system like a jolt of electricity.

“Your dad wants to see you,” she said. “He’s in his study.”

I groaned. “Great.”

“Good luck,” she said.

She walked toward the small office she used to handle her household duties. I took a few more drinks of coffee, trying to steel myself for the lecture I knew was coming. I had heard the words before, but they never sank in. Maybe I was rebelling because I partially blamed him for my situation.

The door was open. I hesitated in the hall, then forced myself forward.

My father stood in front of the enormous window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the manicured estate like he was surveying a kingdom.

He didn’t turn when he heard me enter. “Sit down,” he said in that stern voice of his.

I obeyed, settling into one of the stiff leather chairs opposite his desk.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stared out at the gardens.

Finally, he turned. He looked at me like he was trying to decide which of my many faults he wanted to address first.

“Do you remember the Bancrofts?” he asked, voice deceptively mild.

I frowned. “We used to see them at the club sometimes, right?”

“Correct,” he said, moving behind his desk. He didn’t sit. “Armand Bancroft and I have been friends for a very long time.”

“I know,” I said.

I didn’t know why this was being brought up. I was a little old to be sending off to live with one of his friends in the hopes of shaping me up.