Page 12

Thomas

My wife is furious.

She’d be even more upset to know that I’m referring to her as my wife in my head. Even my stomach churns at the idea. But that’s what she is, whether we like it or not. And it would appear Stella’s still leaning toward the not option.

“How did it get out?” she fumes, stilettos clicking against the tiled floor as she paces. I’m learning this is her stress response—angrily stomping and somehow looking sexy while doing it. “Who leaked it?”

We’ve tucked ourselves away in a small back room in the reception venue, a space that was likely meant for newly wedded couples to escape the chaos of their big day and have a moment alone. The irony is certainly not lost on me.

“It was an anonymous source, according to the articles I’ve seen so far,” I answer from my spot on the small sofa.

Between my own quick googling and the overload of links my assistant has sent me—which tipped me off in the first place—I’ve figured out that the person who sold the story has to have been at our wedding. The pictures that accompanied the articles weren’t the exact ones I found on my camera roll, but they’re close. Like whoever took them on my phone immediately pulled out their own and snapped more.

“But they were at the chapel with us,” Stella pushes. “Our photographer .” She spits the last word like it’s poison.

“They were. But that could have been anyone. Another couple getting hitched, an employee, some random person who followed us inside…It’s impossible to know.”

She lifts her phone, scrolling before reading aloud, “?‘According to the source, the couple proclaimed they were “ecstatic” to be getting married, even though the bride swapped around the groom’s hyphenated surname in her vows before correcting herself in a fit of giggles. Baldwin was set to marry French businessman étienne Beauchamp just over two weeks ago, but the wedding was called off at the last second. The source says they were “shocked” to see Baldwin move on so quickly but that they wished the new couple well.’?” Stella looks over at me, her brow scrunched. “?‘They were shocked.’ Doesn’t that sound like it’s someone who knows me?”

I shrug, not having gleaned that from the quote. “Anyone who heard about your other wedding would probably say the same. It is kind of shocking.”

I’ve put my foot in my mouth and her glare confirms it.

“But that doesn’t matter,” I follow up quickly. It’s time to change the subject. “Tell me how you want to handle this and I’ll follow your lead.”

Stella makes to answer, but the phone buzzing in her hand distracts her. “Sorry, I need to take this,” she mumbles before turning her back to me and answering.

“You’re married ?” a woman screeches, loud enough for me to hear without the call even on speaker. “What the fuck , Stella?”

Stella desperately tries to lower the volume as she shuffles toward the corner. It doesn’t do much.

“Why am I reading about this on TMZ instead of you telling me?” the woman demands. “Is this for real?”

“Lower your voice, Mika,” Stella hisses, and I sadly can’t hear the rest of the conversation from there.

This Mika person is barely giving Stella the chance to get a word in edgewise, though. There are plenty of cut-off sentences and stressed reassurances that she’ll tell Mika everything when she can. By the time she hangs up, she’s dazed and unsteady on her feet.

“Things are…not good,” she says, pressing a hand to the wall to stabilize herself. “My best friend says she found out about the wedding from one of the upper-level staff members at my company, which means…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Which means that everyone at my company is likely to find out soon, including my shareholders.”

I don’t know the ins and outs of her business, but it’s sounding like this is going to cause a problem. “What percentage of the company do you own?” I ask warily. If her board of directors can get rid of her, then not good is a vast understatement.

“Fifty-one percent,” she says. “So they can’t oust me. But they can make my life hell if they don’t believe in my leadership abilities.”

I won’t say I know too much about business, but I know enough from growing up around my family’s hospitality company to understand this could be career-ruining if her board decides to jump ship.

“It’s just a silly accidental marriage,” I try to reassure. “You were at a hen do. Crazier things have happened on those. I’m sure they can forgive you that little lapse in judgment.”

She snorts humorlessly. “I think they’re going to focus entirely on the lapse in judgment part. This shows that I’m irresponsible. That I can’t be trusted. And…” She trails off, taking a moment to wet her deep crimson lips. “This isn’t the first misstep I’ve had lately. I didn’t tell you the whole story of what happened after my ex left me.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen the video yet, honestly.”

“I haven’t looked you up,” I confess, which is a bit silly to not have done at this point. “It felt like an invasion of privacy.”

But now I’m wishing I had because what video is she talking about?

She blows out a breath and looks back down at her phone, tapping at the screen, then hands the device to me. “Press play .”

The cover photo of the video is of a drunk Stella staring into the camera, a nearly overflowing glass of red wine in her hand. From what I can see, she’s fully dressed—or at least the black rollneck sweater gives that illusion—so that rules out one of the horrible ideas that popped to mind. Plus, it’s only a minute long, which I hope means she wasn’t able to pack too much into it.

I press play . There are a few seconds of silence—so far, so good—before Stella leans in to the camera, nearly spilling wine as she does. And then she starts talking.

“Oh,” I exhale, eyes wide, as I take in her ranting. “This video is…”

The real-life Stella groans as the one on-screen tells the world that love is a made-up, steaming pile of bullshit , and that men are dick-waving sadists who get off on making women love them, only to leave in the end. At least, that’s the gist of it. Her speech has a few more-colorful words than that.

I watch the rest of the video in silence. It ends with an emphatic “ And fuck the French! All y’all suck. And macarons aren’t even good! ”

“Well,” I announce as I attempt to gather my thoughts, silence ringing through the room. “That wasn’t great. But it isn’t as bad as you made it seem.” And it’s true. I’ve seen worse. I’ve done worse. “I think the most incriminating part is you saying macarons aren’t good. You built a business around them.”

“I know!” she laments, dropping onto the sofa with me. “It’s a bad look all around.”

“Drunkenly screaming about how love isn’t real and men suck isn’t so terrible. I mean, you weren’t wrong about either.”

She slides me a look from the corner of her eye. “You’d really put your whole gender down like that? I can’t believe I’m married to a misandrist.”

I shrug, ignoring her sarcasm because I’m serious. “I’ve just seen enough shitty men do shitty things.”

It’s clear she wants to question that, but she pushes on with her other crimes. “What about the love part? You don’t believe in it?”

“I’ve never been in it. What would I know?”

Again, I see curiosity spark in her gaze even as she tosses another query. “What about me hating the French?”

“Can’t blame you there either. They’re kind of universally hated.”

She elbows me, scowling. “They’re not bad people, and I shouldn’t have said that just because I hate one Frenchman.”

“Whatever you say.”

She huffs and leans against the cushions, head falling back dejectedly. “But this is why I’ve tried to be on my best behavior lately. Us getting drunkenly married is the cherry on top of all the bullshit I’ve been involved in.”

It’s a hat trick of less-than-great things, though nothing she can’t recover from. “You’re going to be okay, Stella.”

“Maybe,” she mumbles. “But people finding out about the annulment is going to be another blow. Our marriage was irresponsible enough, but separating immediately after? That’s just admitting I massively fucked up.”

The hope that sparks in my chest shouldn’t be there. She’s already given me her answer about not wanting to stay married, and I’m determined to respect it. She said no , not convince me .

But is it considered trying to convince her if it really could help the mess she’s in?

“What if you reconsidered my previous offer?” I ask before I can think better of it. “To stay married.”

Her head lifts slowly, eyes cautious as she stares at me. When she doesn’t say anything, I push on, even though my brain is screaming at me to shut up.

“Things were different when this wasn’t public yet,” I rush to explain. “The news coming out has changed the situation. Like you said, it’s going to look worse if we go forward with the annulment now. So…what if we stay married and ride this out together? Would that help you?”

Is it shady to frame it so that my offer is more about her than me? Absolutely. But I do want to help her, and that flicker of hope is refusing to be extinguished.

Yet there’s a growing rock of guilt along with it, because my own indiscretions haven’t been revealed. Does she know what I’ve done? How hated I am?

“Have you looked me up?” I blurt before she can answer.

She blinks, thrown by the change in direction, then shakes her head. “No. I told myself I didn’t want to know more about you than I already did if we were getting an annulment. A clean break.”

Well. That’s problematic, but she deserves to make an informed decision. I can’t keep this from her.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. “I also have an incriminating video I’d like to show you.”

Stella looks at me like she can’t believe her luck. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” I tap at the screen, then reluctantly hand it to her. “Behold, my own personal nightmare.”

I stare at the ceiling as my furious recorded voice rings out through the room. As much as I want to gauge Stella’s reaction, I don’t want to see her horror.

“He could have fucking killed me!”

There’s the crack of my helmet hitting the concrete, heard even over the scream of wheel guns and cars passing in the pit lane. I’m standing in the back of the McMorris garage, barely visible behind a partition leading to where the engineers are set up. When I first saw the video, I couldn’t believe I’d missed someone filming me, because there’s no hiding in those back hallways. I should have seen someone there.

There are a few seconds of silence as the team principal tries to calm me down, speaking quietly. Then: “ Oh, don’t give me that. Castellucci knew exactly what he was doing. He does that shit on purpose and enjoys it! ”

There’s more of my ranting—very similar to Stella’s, actually—but the worst is still to come.

“ Fuck him ,” I spit as my tirade starts drawing to a close. “ If he keeps driving like that, he’s going to get himself killed too. And you know what? I hope he does! I hope he dies. I hope the rest of us never have to worry about him again. He deserves the worst. Let the trash take itself out. ”

There’s more background noise before the video cuts, but hearing the horrible things I said all over again has me nauseated. I was angry and hurting—literally, because I’d just pried myself out of my ruined car after Lorenzo forced me into the barriers—and lashing out. I didn’t mean any of it. But whoever filmed this either didn’t realize it or wanted to make me look as awful as possible.

I force myself to glance over at Stella when she presses my phone back into my hand. Shockingly, she doesn’t look as upset as I expected.

“That wasn’t cute,” she says. “But unless that guy actually died, this isn’t terrible. I mean, he nearly killed you . I’d be pissed off too.”

I swallow hard and rub my jaw, eyes darting away.

“Oh shit,” she blurts, rocking forward so that I can’t avoid her gaze. “Did he actually die? Did you kill him? Oh my God, did I marry a murderer ?”

“Jesus, no!” I drop my hand again, heat creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, but he—” I cut short as guilt burns through me. “He ended up having a terrible accident about a month after I said all of that. He lived, but now he’s paralyzed and everyone hates me because someone leaked this video of me behaving like an absolute twat.”

Stella leans back again and grimaces. “Okay, that’s not as bad as you killing him, but that’s still bad,” she amends. “And you don’t know who posted this?”

I shake my head. “I’m still trying to figure it out. I have a hard time believing anyone from the team would do this with all the NDAs we’ve signed. It was a huge risk to take.”

“Someone there must really hate you.”

That stings. I’ve always thought of myself as being well- liked, especially within the McMorris team. I spent two years with them as a junior driver before they bumped me up to being their test and reserve driver. Then, the next season, I was in one of the race seats, partnering—and often outpacing—their veteran driver. I’ve only signed multiyear contracts with them in the five years I’ve been in F1, and I’m hoping to re-sign for a few more years come the end of next season when my current contract is up. The money I bring to the team with my personal sponsorships doesn’t hurt either.

But this video has thrown a wrench in that plan, even though our team principal and CEO have assured me it hasn’t changed the way they feel about me. They could be lying straight to my face. And they probably are, considering several sponsors have reached out to express their concerns about my behavior. But no one has dropped me or the team yet, and I won’t know anything about my future at McMorris until that new contract comes across my agent’s desk.

More than anything, though, I wish I knew who hates me this much.

“That’s my drama,” I finish. “I understand if this makes you want to run away from me screaming.”

Stella’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t run. I’m a Pilates girl.”

I’m in no mood to laugh, and yet her quip has a surprised huff leaving my lips.

She shifts to face me, tucking one long leg underneath her. The bronze silk of her dress pulls around her hips. My eyes are drawn to the dramatic curve, even though I know this isn’t the time to admire her, but it’s hard not to when she looks like a goddess. I nearly tripped when I spotted her in the church earlier, because somehow, she was more beautiful in the daylight than in dim club lighting. Even this morning, hungover with smudged makeup, she was gorgeous. But Stella all done up? I don’t know how anyone could keep their eyes off her.

“Look,” she says, leveling me with a stare. “It’s clear we’re both in less-than-ideal circumstances, with no room to judge each other. But do you really think staying married and making people think this wasn’t some drunken mistake is going to fix anything? Or that they’d even buy it?”

“Yes. I absolutely do.” I sound more confident than I feel, but I really think this could ease the uncomfortable situation we’re in. “It won’t be hard for people to buy. We can have our PR teams play up how hurt and abandoned you felt by your ex-fiancé and how I swept in at just the right moment.”

Stella snorts. “Wow, you really are Prince Charming,” she drawls, sarcasm dripping from every word. But there’s an upward tilt to her lips that’s far more genuine.

I hold her gaze and hope she can see how serious I am. “This will benefit us both. It’ll get Figgy and my parents off my back, and maybe it’ll even make me look better to my team.”

“And my board of directors won’t think I’m a damn fool who got married and divorced in the span of forty-eight hours,” Stella adds, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. “You might be right about this, Thomas.”

I know I am, but I certainly won’t say that. Stella has to come to her own conclusions without me pushing her into it.

“Anything else incriminating I need to know before I say yes?” she asks.

My heart leaps. “Not that I can think of, no.”

She makes a vague sound, then looks back down at her own phone, quickly typing something in and scrolling. I frown and shift closer so I can see what she’s doing.

“Are you googling me?”

Stella doesn’t acknowledge me, unabashedly reading. “Gotta know what I’m getting myself into.” Her brow knits, then she glances at me. “You’re a Libra?”

I feel like I should be offended. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing! I’m a Leo. We’re…actually pretty compatible.”

I let out a breath. Last thing I need is the stars deciding we’re not a good match. Not that I believe in any of that stuff, but if she does, then I need to start doing my research.

Stella locks her phone again and bites her lip, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. “How long would we do this for? I mean, obviously we’re not going to stay married for the rest of our lives. This is a temporary, mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Spoken like a true businesswoman. But she’s right that this can’t last for long. We both deserve the chance to find and date other people we might have a connection with, even if there is a spark of… something between us. I’m under no impression that Stella is my forever person—despite reciting vows that said as much—and she clearly feels the same.

“We can do it for as long as we think it’s helping us,” I suggest. “And when one or both of us are ready for it to end, we’ll talk it over and set a divorce date.”

“We should stay married for at least a year,” she declares, and she must take my surprise for alarm because she quickly follows it up with, “Just on paper. If we decide we’re sick of each other sooner than that, then we’ll quietly separate and do our own things until time’s up. But divorcing any earlier than that won’t look good.”

She has a point. And who knows if we’ll have accomplished what we want by then anyway.

“That’s reasonable,” I agree. “So…does that mean you’re in? You want to do this?”

Her gaze drops to her lap as she considers. This is quite possibly the most absurd thing I’ve ever done, and I’m sure she feels the same.

Yet her eyes find mine again a moment later, and the determined glint in them tells me her answer before her lips form the words.

“I’m in,” she says. “Let’s stay married.”