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CHAPTER SIX

That Night

I can’t tell what the fish tastes like.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even know we were having fish as the main course if it weren’t for the color of the flesh on my plate.

Instead of focusing on something as trivial as food, I’d rather analyze the scene in front of me.

I stare at my siblings with a completely neutral expression—Seth, looking just as bored as always during dinners with our parents, and the youngest, Lois, engrossed in a conversation with the woman who, by tonight’s end, is supposed to officially become my future fiancée.

I deliberately skip over Jodie and continue scanning the table.

My parents, Nigel Jasper Seymour—and yes, like my father and me, Seth also has Jasper as his middle name. To this day, I wonder which of our progenitors thought that would be a brilliant idea—and our matriarch, Renee Mae Seymour.

My eyes move on and land on my cousin Morrison, who hides a smirk behind his wine glass as he raises it slightly in my direction.

He’s probably the only person here who actually knows how I’m feeling. We talked about the engagement, and he advised me not to go through with it—not just because he’s a proud bachelor like I am but because he has an instinctive dislike for Jodie and her family.

We all come from old money, names that matter in American high society. I’m not one to throw stones when it comes to dysfunctional families—because the Seymours are, without a doubt, a polished version of a deadly game, where everyone’s a bastard and no one gives a damn about anyone else.

But Jodie’s parents? They’re a whole new level.

They’re the kind of people who shouldn’t have reproduced at all. Which makes me wonder how someone as seemingly sweet—albeit hollow—as Jodie came out of that genetic factory.

“I think a thousand guests would be ideal. We have family in France and Germany,” my mother says in her sing-song voice, stabbing a sharp pain directly into my brain.

She has the astonishing ability to speak softly and be painfully annoying at the same time, stretching out the final syllables of words like she pities them for having to end.

Jodie looks at me then, probably seeking my approval after whatever my mother just said. I hear Morrison stifle a laugh. When I first told him I was considering her as my potential wife, he said I wouldn’t last six months—let alone five years, which is what the contract stipulates.

I glance at the woman I slipped a three-carat diamond ring into my jacket pocket for earlier today, intending to place it on her finger and seal our agreement once and for all.

She’s perfect in a way most men would be proud of if she were by their side.

Natural brown hair, cut just above the shoulders.

Green eyes. Flawless skin. Everything about her is proportionate and presentable.

Medium-sized breasts. A pleasant figure.

There’s no doubt she’d give me beautiful heirs.

At thirty-one, Jodie told me she’s eager to become a mother.

She seems embarrassed now that I’m staring at her in front of my family, but she shouldn’t be. She should know by now I don’t care what they think.

Her expression quickly smooths out. Everything about her is appropriate, even her manners. She would never risk the “indignity” of being seen as anything but sweet and perfect.

“What do you think of your mother’s suggestion, LJ?” my father asks, probably sensing the tension in the air.

He didn’t get to where he is by chance. He’s not just another heir sitting on his fortune. Unlike Morrison’s father, who spent his inheritance like there was no tomorrow, my dad multiplied his.

He’s sharp, intelligent, a predator in a tailored suit. Not someone most people would want to face off against.

Except me.

I’m cut from the same cloth, so his tone, which others might find intimidating, does nothing to me.

“I think before anyone worries about the guest list, they should give me time to actually make the proposal. It hasn’t happened yet.”

I feel like I’m walking a razor’s edge.

Nothing has been made official, a voice in my head warns.

All I’ve done so far is hand Jodie a draft of a prenuptial agreement. I haven’t proposed. We’ve talked about marriage, yes, but the more I realize she already sees this as a done deal, the more I question whether I’ve made a mistake.

“Lazarus,” my mother says in that disapproving tone of hers. “This is no time for jokes.”

I ignore her, my attention on Jodie, because something just flashed across her expression which caught my eye.

It was quick but unmistakable. For the first time, I saw proof that she’s actually alive, that she has blood in her veins, because even during sex, she can’t let go.

That’s one of the main reasons I chose her.

Marrying someone who satisfied me too well in bed would complicate things.

If I picked a woman who gave me everything physically—even without love—I might stay faithful longer than I should, and that would lead her to believe there could be something more between us.

It’d be a mistake, of course, and she’d end up hurt.

I may be a soulless bastard, but I don’t hurt women intentionally. That’s why I need someone who’s on the same page as I am.

There’s heavy silence around the table. Everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for what I’ll say.

I calmly raise my wine glass to my lips—for the first time all evening—and keep studying Jodie’s face.

Yes, she’s angry, but that’s not what bothers me. In fact, I admire authenticity. What does bother me is that this tiny burst of emotion has pulled the curtain from my eyes.

She’s been pretending this whole time.

There’s not an ounce of acceptance in her face right now, none of the supposed understanding of our deal.

Jodie just made a mistake that’ll destroy whatever expectations she has of me.

I don’t tolerate liars.