The Morning After

I awoke in regret with some fancy sheets.

For one glorious moment, I didn’t think about it. And then it all came back, Marcus, my father, the bar, the plane, the chapel with its Elvis kitschy and the judge who had stared at us like we were idiots.

My marriage certificate on the bedside with my new name: Isla Cross.

I was going to be sick.

The hotel suite was obscenely luxurious, floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the strip, furniture that I guessed per item cost more than any of my tuition bills, and a wall-length bed (no joke, was probably as big as my previous apartment). I was in it by myself, the previous day’s rumpled dress still on me, my makeup all over the silk pillowcase.

Classy, Isla. Real classy.

I had 17 missed calls on my phone. I took no heed of them and staggered to the bathroom, where I had the face of someone who had made catastrophically poor choices, twirled black mascara eyes, hair like a bird’s nest and an expression that shouted. What on earth have I done?

The answer was flashing at me from my left hand, a platinum wedding band that featured a large diamond so big, it looked fake. It wasn't fake. There was nothing false about Damien Cross except for his heart, maybe.

I threw water on my face and attempted to trace the exact moment I’d gone off my rocker. When had he made the offer for the car? When I'd gotten in the car? Or when I had gone to the goddamned dive bar and not to the hospital like a regular weakly wimpy piece-of-shitty weakling jerk-lawyer who couldn’t handle a simple breakdown?

"You're awake."

I whirled around so quickly I nearly lost my balance. Damien hovered in the doorway, criminally put together in dark slacks and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that had no business being that distracting. His hair was wet from a shower, and he carried two cups of coffee as though these were normal. Like we were normal.

"Jesus! Are you always this sneaky?”

"It's my room. I didn't sneak." He held out one of the cups. “You need this.”

I wanted to say no on principle, but I needed caffeine more than I did pride. I accepted it, our hands brushing against each other. That contact gave me an unwanted jolt through my being that I really didn’t want to dissect.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Seven. We have a flight back to New York at nine.

"We?" Black, no sugar, I hated it like this but could not be bothered to grumble. I have to get to the hospital. See my father..."

"Already handled. I called my assistant an hour ago to wire the EUR 500,000 in your father's accounts for his current medical bills. He’s been transferred to a private room with the best cardiologist in the city.”

I stared at him. "How did you—"

"I told you. I handle things." He propped himself on the door, gazing at me with those inscrutable storm-eyes. "Your mother's been calling. So has your ex."

"I know. I'm ignoring them."

"Smart. At some point, you’ll have to deal with them. We have a press conference tomorrow.

My stomach felt as if the coffee had turned to acid. "A what?"

"Press conference. To announce our marriage. You control the narrative before they create their own.” He said it so nonchalantly, as if surprise marriages were an everyday occurrence for him. “My PR team is already writing the statement: whirlwind romance, love at first sight, all the usual bullshit people expect."

"I didn't agree to that."

"You consented to be the obedient wife. That includes public appearances." There was matter of fact in his tone, but something harder underneath. “Unless you want everyone to know this is purely a business deal? Your father would be thrilled to explain it all to his investors."

Low blow. I gripped the cup with my fingers. "You're an asshole."

"Yes. But sometimes you can’t help being a jerk to the stranger who just saved your family from going broke, so how about waiting until you’re no longer in my hotel wearing my ring?”

We were glaring at each other, tension was sparking like lightning about ready to hit. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal mistake. I need to rip the ring off, call a lawyer and get this annulled before...

"Your dad woke up this morning, and he was asking for you," Damien said softly. “My head cried when he found out his bills were paid. Said it was a miracle."

The fight drained out of me. "You called the hospital?"

"I told you I'd handle it. I keep my word." He pushed off the door frame. "Get dressed. We leave in an hour. Your things are being packed up and moved to my penthouse right now."

"My things? You can't just..."

"I can. I did. We're married, Isla. And that means you live with me now.” He started toward the door, then stopped. "And for the record? You may want to ring your mate Sophie before she reports a missing person. She's called me six times."

“How does she get your number?”

"I gave it to her last night. Someone had to be told you weren’t being kidnapped.” His smile was sharp. "Just married to a stranger. Totally different."

He scampered off before I could throw my coffee cup at his head.

***

ONE HOUR LATER

The private jet was even more obnoxious now that it was daylight. Cream leather seats, a full bar, a bedroom in the back that I would be totally pretending didn’t exist. Damien’s assistant, Lucas, he thought it was probably was already on the plane, tapping away at his laptop.

He glanced up when I came in, and the ghost of sympathy crossed his face before he schooled it into professionalism.

"Mrs. Cross. Welcome aboard." He stood, extending his hand. "Lucas Grant. I take care of... everything for Damien that doesn’t involve yelling at people.” That's his specialty."

Despite everything, I almost smiled. "Isla. Just Isla."

"Noted." He gestured to the seats. "We're wheels up in ten minutes. Can I get you anything? Water? Champagne? A law firm that can help explain what you have gotten yourself into?"

"Lucas." Damien's words sounded cautionary as he pushed his way in after me.

“Just trying to help, boss." But Lucas’s eyes were gentle when he gazed at me. "Seriously, though. Anything you want, you ask me. I've known this bastard since we were twelve. I know all his weaknesses."

"He have weaknesses?" I asked. “I thought he’d been born in hell fully grown.”

Lucas laughed. Damien did not.

“Have a seat,” Damien commanded, indicating the chair on the other side of his desk. “We have to look at the contract specifics."

"I signed the contract. In front of a judge. Pretty sure I just made that legal.”

"The marriage certificate is legal. But we have a different agreement, that defines the terms of our arrangement.” He produced a supple leather folder that could have been used as a weapon. "Lucas has copies. We’ll read it on the plane.”

"Now? Do I not get a five-minute window here to spread the frosting of lies over the already half-baked cake that is the story of my life and get on with it?”

“No.” He sat, crossed his legs and was every inch the billionaire CEO who had built a fortune on ruthlessness. “Since in 12 hours you’re going to be standing beside me in front of cameras, and I want you to know precisely what it is you’ve consented to.”

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he could shove his contract up where the sun wouldn’t shine. But he was right, I had signed up for this. I may as well find out what “this” was supposed to mean, after all.

The plane taxied, and I sat down across the aisle from him. "Fine. Let's hear it."

Lucas slid me a contract. It was forty-seven pages long.

"You're joking."

“I don’t mess around when it comes to contracts,” Damien joked. "Page one: the basics. 1 year marriage, since last night. You live in my penthouse, you show up for the required events as my spouse, and we present ourselves as a married couple."

"Define 'appearance.'"

"We're affectionate in public. You guys will take hands, kiss when we need to, behave like we do in real life." His eyes locked on mine. "Think you can manage that?"

"Can you?"

His smile was cold. "I'm an excellent actor."

“The second page,” Lucas offered, is a clear lifeline, trying to keep things fun. "Financial terms. Five-million-dollar transfer to your personal account this morning...”

"What?" I nearly dropped the contract. "That's..."

"Half your payment," Damien finished. “The other five is when we get divorced. Your dad's medical bills are paid for life. The company’s debts were paid off an hour ago. You have full access to household accounts for personal expenses, like clothes, car, whatever you need to look the part."

My head was spinning. Five million dollars. Just like that. Sitting in an account in my name.

"Page three deals with how we're setting up living arrangements,” Lucas said. “The penthouse has two master suites. You take the east wing, he takes the west. Private bathrooms, separate entrances. You don’t have to sleep in the same bed.”

Thank God for small mercies.

"Non-Work Related Activities, Personal Conduct Expectations And Appearance," pages four through twelve From public behavior to social responsibilities and media dealings. "The basic gist is: Don't embarrass him, don't talk to the press without approval and look pretty when you go to charity galas."

"I'm not a puppet," I said.

"No," Damien agreed. "You're a wife. There's a difference. You don’t get five million dollars for a puppet.”

I wanted to hit him. I wanted it so bad my hand twitched.

“Thirteen to 20 are on loyalty...”

"Wait." I looked up sharply. "Loyalty?"

“Neither of us will be in any kind of romantic or sexual relationship with anyone else for the duration of the marriage,” Damien said bluntly. "Discretion clause. If any of us is unfaithful, the agreement will be null and void and the guilty party will pay a ten million dollar penalty.”

"You've got to be kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" He leaned forward, the rims of his elbows flat against his knees. “This marriage has to look real. In other words, no pieces, no exes, no scandals. You’re mine for a year now, at least on paper.”

“And if I...” I couldn’t believe I was asking this. "What if I need..."

"Need what?" His voice lowered, threatening and dark. "To fuck someone? To scratch an itch?"

Heat flooded my face. "That's not."

"Then what? Enlighten me, wife."

The way he said “wife” like it was both a claim and an insult, made something hot and angry coil in my stomach.

“I mean, look, a year is a long time to expect two people to...”

"To what? Control themselves?" He leaned back, that maddening grin quirking his mouth. "If you are that desperate, Isla, I am sure we can find a way."