Page 6 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Isla

"No, absolutely not. I am not leaving a day earlier with you. I am not changing my plans at this stage. I’ve set up all of my meetings and all of my appointments with various vendors on that day, I can’t just up and leave."

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Mr. Grumpy McHotpants stomped into my office and announced I’m going to marry him.

After he left, I stayed rooted in my seat, not sure what to make of it.

I was supposed to meet my friends for dinner but bailed.

My message stating this in our shared Sisterhood-of-the-Seven group chat, so called because it consists of the wives of the Seven—of which I am now an honorary member—was met with cries of disappointment.

All have had one hell of a journey to get their happily-ever-afters.

Liam isn’t one of either of the Seven, but he seems to have been adopted into their fold, just like I have been by their women.

It helps that I was already friends with most of them before they got married.

And because most of them are attached and I was the only single one.

.. They loved to hear about my exploits on the dating scene—of which there’s been woefully very little to report lately, considering I’ve been sinking all of my time into this wedding.

Into my wedding, as it now stands. The realization sank in.

My stomach churned, and the contents of my stomach threatened to boil up.

At which point, I reached for the bottle of tequila I keep hidden in the bottom drawer of my desk, and knocked back a few mouthfuls.

It helped, to the extent that a pleasant glow invaded my extremities.

My assistant had already left, so I locked my office, indulged myself with a cab, and went home.

Swigging more tequila throughout my bubble bath didn’t help much, except to render me drunk enough to crawl into bed and sleep soundly through the night.

I woke up with a slight hangover to find the group chat blowing up with questions about where I was.

I ignored all of them and managed to shower and have breakfast, by which time, the headache had receded.

That’s when a text message came through from him.

Unknown number: My office. 9 a.m.

Of course, I knew who it was. Who else would summon me in that imperious tone of voice? Which hadn’t stopped me from replying: Who dis?

Unknown number: Don’t be late.

Ugh! Who puts a full stop at the end of their text messages? Mr. Curmudgeon McHotpants is who.

I squeezed my fingers around my phone so hard, I still have the marks on the palm of my hand to show for it. I almost flung the phone out the window… But then, it started buzzing with responses from the vendors I contacted yesterday, when I was still in the throes of planning Lila’s wedding.

That’s when the enormity of the task in front of me sank in. I still have to carry this wedding over the finish line—only this time, as the bride. To say I hyperventilated at that realization is putting it mildly.

To be honest, it helped that it was already eight-thirty a.m. and I had to be somewhere at nine.

It meant I could postpone the rest of my nervous breakdown.

I took the tube to the office address texted to me by his assistant.

Of course, he'd have his assistant do that. He couldn’t stoop so low as to do it himself.

I reached the office with five minutes to spare, then loitered in the lobby until it was ten past. Only then, I approached the reception and was escorted to the elevator set aside from the rest. There, the security person waved the keycard and pressed the button for the top floor where his office is located.

Now, I scowl at the asshole who’s seated opposite me at his desk in his office in a chrome and steel tower in the heart of London’s business district.

In truth, I’m thankful he opted to have this meeting in these surroundings and not a bar or, god forbid, his home.

Of course, I’m going to have to move in there as soon as we returned from the wedding—as he already informed me—but this means I don’t have to survey something as intimate as his house until later. For that, I’m grateful.

I informed him I hadn’t yet made up my mind about his proposal. He pretended not to hear me as he pushed a sheaf of papers in my direction. "Everything I said is in there. You might want to have your own lawyer take a look at it before you sign it."

I ignore the papers. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Did you hear what I just said?" He glares back at me.

We hold each other’s gaze for a beat. He has little creases that radiate out from the corners of his eyes.

His cheekbones are so sharp, so perfectly sculpted, I would surely get a paper cut if I brushed my fingers across them.

As for his jaw? It’s square and rigid, with the hint of a dent in the chin.

I mean, come on. Does he have to have that slight dent in his chin?

Could the man be any better looking in any way?

And his hair... Don’t get me started on that.

Those thick, dark strands of his that are slicked back from his face.

I touch my own mane that I like to wear about my shoulders.

I’m going to have to put it up for the wedding, and then, likely, I’ll have to share a room with him after we’re married. Nope, no way.

"I’m not sleeping with you," I burst out.

He arches an eyebrow.

"I’m also not going to sleep in the same bed as you."

"We’re going to have to pretend to consummate the wedding—"

"In the privacy of our home, where no one will know if we have separate bedrooms."

"Do you think I’m tempted to touch you? Let me clear up any confusion, once and for all. I have no interest in you, except for the fact that you’re going to be my employee until such a time that you deliver the baby."

He says 'the baby' in the same tone of voice as one would say, remember to pick up the dry cleaning.

"So, I was right." I tip up my chin. "You’re an asshole."

He shrugs. "Do you want to get your lawyers to check the papers before you sign them? Or you can sign them as-is. I don’t care either way."

I squeeze my fingers around the arms of the chair I’m seated in.

It’s a comfortable chair, actually. No doubt, he wants to lull whoever he’s meeting into a false sense of security.

But he doesn’t fool me. Nope. N-a-h, I know exactly the kind of man he is.

Someone who will reach his goals, no matter who he has to hurt or what he has to sacrifice along the way.

Well, he picked the wrong woman this time.

"I am not Lila. I’m not going to let you push me around."

"Oh?" He turns to the computer in front of him and proceeds to scan whatever is written on the screen.

"I already told you I haven’t agreed to this arrangement."

"And you and I both know you’re going to. I suggest you put aside your vacillations and focus on planning the wedding, which you now have precisely " —he looks at his watch— "three days to plan."

"Three?" I shriek. "Six days. I have six days. That’s one-hundred and forty-four hours, asshole."

He laughs. The bastard actually laughs at me. "Just testing you." He smirks.

Jerk! I draw in another breath and shove the anger deep down into my stomach. Pain flashes in my guts, then fades away.

"I assume you still want to go ahead with that circus you’ve planned?"

Circus? He called the work I’ve put into planning the most epic ‘wedding of the century’ a circus?

Bastard. I squeeze my fingers together, then set my lips.

"It’s not a circus, you clown. It’s a gorgeous destination wedding.

Also, you told me I could plan the event however I want. My dream wedding, remember?"

"How can I forget?" he says in a tone that implies the exact opposite. Then, as if it’s an afterthought, he adds, "Of course, I could always change my mind, and we could elope."

"What?" My heart slams into my ribcage. My pulse buzzes like a dragonfly caught in a net. "All the preparations are made. Influencers and the press are expecting exclusives from us. The event plans are in full swing… We can’t elope. That would—"

"Unless you sign off on this contract..."

I draw myself up to my full height. "Are you coercing me?"

"I’m simply stating a fact."

"You’re a son of a bitch."

"And your future husband." His grin widens.

"Fuck you."

"Not unless you ask me nicely."

Anger swells in my chest. My pulse rate speeds up. I so want to take that contract and tear it up, but I can’t. And he knows it. Oh, I’d so love to turn the tables on him. One day, it’ll be me holding all the cards, and then... We’ll see how he feels.

I lean over, grab one of his pens, then pull the contract over and initial it. "There." I throw the pen down on the table. It bounces off, hits the floor, and rolls toward the wall.

I glance up to find his jaw hard, nostrils flared. A vein pops at his temple. He’s pissed. Oh, good. A dull thud of satisfaction coils in my chest.

"Pick it up," he says in a soft voice.

"No."

His gaze narrows. "What did you say?" Anger and a strange sort of excitement emanate from him. His eyes gleam. Color flushes his features. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was excited.

What am I thinking? I don’t know him at all.

Maybe he is excited. The hairs on my forearms rise.

I take a step back, then jut out my chin.

"I said no. Pick it up yourself, asshole."

"Don’t call me that."

"Why shouldn’t I? You’ve been behaving like a dickhead from the moment I met you. I never understood what Lila saw in you. I’m glad she’s rid of you."

"But you’re not." He rises slowly to his feet and keeps rising and rising.

I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Shoot. I forgot how tall… how big this man is. His shoulders are so massive, they block the view of the windows behind him.

"Pick. Up. The. Pen," he says through gritted teeth.

"And if I don’t?"

He stretches out his arm, pulls at his cuff, then the other. Then he lowers his hands to his sides and fixes me with a glare. "No one says no to me. No one."

I snort. "I just did, in case you didn’t notice."

"Oh, I did notice." He prowls out from behind his desk toward me.

My knees tremble, and I half-angle my body away from him. I dart my gaze toward the door and he clicks his tongue. "I wouldn’t if I were you."

"You don’t scare me, douchenozzle."

He blinks, seeming to be momentarily taken aback. "Did you take a course in cheap insults?"

"No, I merely spend time in the company of normal people, the kind you’ll never know because you spend all your time in this ivory tower cut off from the real world."

"The kind of world I inhabit teaches me all kinds of skills, little bunny." He takes another step forward, and I sidle back.

"Don’t call me that."

"Afraid it’s a name that’s going to suit you when you—"

I turn around and make a run for the door, then yelp when strong fingers clamp around my wrist. I’m turned around and yanked forward.

I fall against that massive chest of his.

Bergamot and mint and something musky—the scent of him envelopes me.

I bury my nose in his shirt, draw in a deep breath, and my head spins.

Then, just as suddenly, I’m free. I stumble back, but he doesn’t right me. I glance up to find he’s staring down at me with an inscrutable look on his face.

"Better not start something you can’t finish," he snaps. He steps back, and the air rushes between us.

I draw in a huge lungful of air, already missing his scent, the warmth of his body, the feel of those rock-hard abs under my palms.

He slides into his chair and turns to his screen again.

Guess I’m dismissed then.

I turn to leave, and his voice stops me. "Oh, and I’ll pick you up at 5 o’clock this evening."

I spin around. "What do you mean?”

"You’re going to meet my family."

"M-meet your family?"

"My mother, actually. You didn’t think I was going to spring the surprise of a new bride on her at my wedding, did you?"

Yes, that’s exactly what I thought.

"I… I can’t make it tonight. I need to work on the remaining preparations."

"Hire additional people. There’s no way you can get everything accomplished on your own with such tight deadlines."

"I don’t allow just anyone to work on my projects."

"Surely, you must have worked with reliable vendors in the past? Get more of them on board. God knows, I’m paying enough for the blasted event."

"If attending your own wedding is such a chore, why don’t you cancel it?"

"And rob you of the chance to stage the ‘wedding of the century’?" He smirks, then tilts his head. "Of course, we could elope—"

"Not a chance. The press and influencers are expecting exclusives. To cancel it at this stage would be disastrous and—"

His grin widens. I squeeze my lips together. Damn, I fell for his stupid-ass comments again.

"We’ll need to do another rehearsal."

Instantly, the smile is wiped off his face. "No bloody way."

"Yes, bloody way. There’s a new bride on the block, buster. Hence, we need to rehearse again."

He squares his shoulders. "No fucking way am I walking down an aisle again—unless it’s the actual aisle."

"And even then, it’s not the actual aisle," I mumble under my breath.

"What’s that?"

"Nothing." I cough. "It’s not recommended to go into the wedding cold, without rehearsing it at least once."

"I’ll take my chances."