Contractually Yours: An Arranged Marriage Romance (The Lasker Brothers Book 4)

–eleven years later

Theft in and of itself is awful enough. But by your own family? That should come with some public flogging.

As my limo slogs through the streets of Barcelona, I glare at the video that just popped up on my social media feed. It stars Karl, flashing his standard dick smile. The background indicates he’s in a casino, living the life of a high-roller.

His physical resemblance to Roderick wasn’t really obvious when he was a teenager, but now he looks like a replica. The brown hair, the Roman nose that’s a bit too large for his slightly narrow face. His jaw is somewhat narrow, and if his chin receded just a tad more it’d be considered weak. But he has an irritatingly excellent pair of wide-set brown eyes that make up for the other subpar features. Mom often told me she fell in love with Roderick when she looked into his eyes, like that could excuse years of neglect.

I wish Karl had beady, bloodshot eyes that reflected what a horrible human being he is.

“The key to a great poker game—to winning that game—is having a heart of steel and a face that betrays nothing.” He winks.

Yeah, sure. He can’t bluff to save his life. I’ve seen two-year-olds who lie better. In addition, the casinos know he gets wild and unpredictable after a few whiskeys, which is why they ply him with alcohol the second he steps inside. He loses heavily, but he continues to push his nonexistent luck because he’s convinced that the great win is waiting for him just around the corner.

Karl waves a hand around, a cigar between his fingers, and holds forth about his gambling strategies. Is that a Cohiba Behike? I squint at the screen. Oh yes, it is.

Fury slashes at me. There’s no way he can afford cigars that cost hundreds of dollars with his own money. He doesn’t make enough as a junior marketing executive.

Wanting him to do something useful, Grandfather gave him a position at Peery Diamonds. Karl managed to climb the ladder, although I’m certain nepotism had a lot to do with his glowing evals and promotions.

Regardless, he did what he could because he thought he might be able to suck up to Grandfather and get a portion of the Peery fortune. He even pretended that he wasn’t furious when Grandfather capped his annual salary at two hundred thousand dollars, although it’s two hundred thousand too high, if you ask me. Karl quit showing up for work since Grandfather passed away a little over a year ago. Karl got nothing in the will, and he’s done hiding how he really feels about having to work.

I wish I could fire him, but I can’t exert my full influence at Peery Diamonds yet, even though I’m the CEO. I’m female, in addition to being “still too young” and “unmarried.”

That godawful Gwen was right. The laws of Nesovia are on Roderick’s side on every level. Until I turn thirty or get married, I’m not allowed to run Peery Diamonds unencumbered or freely use the trust fund Mom left me when she lost control of her Jet Ski.

Currently, Roderick’s acting as my trustee, which is laughable because he’s about as trustworthy as Judas. Roderick votes as my proxy at every shareholders’ meeting, and he’s been doing everything to screw with me and reward his allies within the company. He even made himself a “consultant” at Peery Diamonds. I have no idea what he “consults” on, since he knows nothing about the jewelry business. In addition, his self-directed generosity knows no bounds, and he’s taking advantage, spending my money lavishly on himself and his twins.

He calls it “sharing.” I call it “theft.” The laws of Nesovia say he’s in the right because he has a penis and happens to be my biological father.

Damn Roderick. And most importantly, damn Nesovia.

Roman Wellendorff, the deputy minister of finance from Nesovia, is in Barcelona. I was supposed to meet him, but he canceled last minute, which is why I’m heading back to my hotel with nothing to show for it. But then, he probably didn’t want to face me for what was bound to be an unpleasant interaction. I’ve never hidden how I feel about the archaic laws and customs of the country. I even donate heavily out of the private fund I’ve hidden in the United States to his party to ensure they do something about it.

But so far, nothing. The latest measure to repeal the inheritance law failed. Again. The overwhelming majority voted against it. Those men think that their fancy suits and fancier cars can hide the fact that they’re nothing but medieval, unenlightened Neanderthals.

Wellendorff had the nerve to leave me a voicemail, telling me in that condescending, paternalistic voice, “It’s for the best. For your own good, really. Women are to be protected and taken care of.”

Of course. I feel sooooo protected and taken care of right now, fuck you very much.

I exhale, trying to shake off the frustrating image of my so-called family living a luxurious life they don’t deserve. I need to calm down and focus on my countermeasures.

Men like my dad and Wellendorff think women are helpless, docile little creatures. I’ll show them how mistaken they are.

Because I’m about to get engaged and married, quickly and efficiently, to a man neither my father nor the laws of Nesovia can affect. Once that’s done, I’m moving the company’s headquarters to the United States and will prove to the board of directors that I’m worthy of continuing as CEO by starting a successful joint venture in a new market.

My phone pings, pulling me out of my stewing.

–Preston: It’s all right, I guess. But diamonds are like dicks. All else being equal, bigger is better.

That’s his response to the picture of the engagement ring I picked out for our photoshoot later today? “All else” is never equal when it comes to diamonds or dicks. I know because I’m the heiress to Peery Diamonds and I’m a woman.

–Preston: We can do better than this.

Did he not see that the stone is an exceptionally deep blue, princess-cut, ten-point-two-carat beauty? Even on a phone screen, he should be able to tell based on the proportion of the stone to the gorgeous platinum band studded with clear round-cut diamonds. There aren’t that many natural blue diamonds of this level of saturation, not at this size. I had to pore through our absolute top-tier inventory before I could find one that looked suitably impressive.

–Preston: Leave it up to me. I have just the thing.

–Me: Fine.

I wait for him to send me a picture, but he doesn’t. Whatever. I mentally wave off my crabby mood. The ring isn’t worth an argument. Given that he’s a member of the Comtois family—part of the Sebastian Jewelry dynasty—I assume he has good enough taste to select a suitable ring. Obviously, he wants an enormous stone on his fiancée’s hand, something more than a mere ten-point-two-carat blue diamond, estimated at over a quarter of a million dollars. Something monumental.

This isn’t just a marriage—it’s a business deal. Every detail needs to be assessed based on whether or not it can create the maximum publicity and buzz. After Preston and I marry, our companies are going to launch a Sebastian Peery collaboration in Korea to sell jewelry for weddings and romantic occasions. Koreans spend an ungodly amount on jewelry for their weddings, and it’s going to be a lucrative market to pursue.

In addition, I will also finally get something I’ve been dying for: the ability to chart my own destiny. Although I can’t control my own money or the company until I’m thirty, there’s a loophole. If I get married, control of both goes to my husband. And if he decides to let me take the reins, voilà! I’m in charge.

The contract between me and the Comtoises has a specific clause on that point. As soon as the wedding’s completed, Preston’s going to sign a legal document my lawyers drafted, giving me full autonomy over my assets.

And for that alone, I can indulge Preston’s need to put something he likes on my finger.

The traffic back to the hotel is congested. I check the details that my best friend Bianca, who’s also now my assistant, sent for the day.

Photographers—booked and ready.

Florists—done.

Hair and makeup crew—check.

All Preston and I have to do is play-act a romantic engagement with lots of happy smiles…and without revealing that we had never even spoken to each other until two months ago.

But then he wasn’t my first choice of husband. I wanted Sebastian Lasker.

He probably doesn’t remember the teenager he was kind to, but I’ve followed him—and his career. He’s become quite accomplished—a man worthy of admiration. He’s grown Sebastian Jewelry, not just in size but in profitability. Clever marketing campaigns he’s spearheaded have made it one of the top luxury brands in the world. And even though he’s appeared in public with many beautiful women, there’s never been a whisper of scandal about him. Either he’s very careful or his PR team has done an amazing job.

I’ve sighed over Sebastian’s photos like a high school girl having a secret crush, but I didn’t have the courage to do anything about it until I approached the Comtois family and asked for Sebastian as my husband.

Coco Comtois refused. Apparently, he’s too “special” to be wasted like this.

What the matriarch meant is he’s too good for a girl like me, one with a billion scandals attached to her name. From her perspective, I’m a pig trying to get her precious pearl. Her assessment stings, but I’m not explaining my past to her. Trying to make other people understand has never done me any good.

Besides, I haven’t forgotten the lesson Sebastian taught me. It’s never steered me wrong. And Preston is good enough for what I need to do.

Almost an hour later, I’m in a gorgeously appointed corridor, striding toward the penthouse suite I booked for myself and Preston. I hold my phone screen over the security panel on the door at the end of the hall. The light turns green, and I open the door and walk in, the thick carpet muffling my stilettos.

The living room opens up to a gorgeous Spanish vista of white buildings, narrow streets and cloudless cerulean sky. The suite comes with an ivory Steinway baby grand and four vases of fresh cream and pink roses. The photoshoot is going to take place during sunset, when the light’s at its best. The florists are sending even more flowers later, and the makeup and hair people will show up, too.

An ice bucket sweats on a silver tray on the table, but the Dom’s already uncorked. A flute that has clearly been used already and another clean one sit beside it.

I let out a small, resigned sigh. Preston isn’t known for delaying gratification. When he saw the champagne, he probably couldn’t control himself.

Where is he? I look around the living room area or the fully stocked bar. Did he feel jet-lagged and decide to nap? Or is he taking advantage of the Jacuzzi?

Then I hear something. A moan. If it were lower-pitched, I might assume my ersatz fiancé was jerking off, but the sound is too thin. Unless he has some hormonal dysfunction I don’t know about, he shouldn’t sound like that under any circumstances.

The frustration that’s been building up reaches my eyeballs. I struggle to suck in air through sudden fury.

When Preston and I discussed our expectations for this marriage, I told him I’d appreciate some faithfulness and discretion, and he agreed. Screwing a woman a couple of hours before we’re supposed to take photos as a newly engaged couple in the suite I booked and paid for is anything but being faithful and discreet.

The desire to grab one of the vases and crack it over his head is nearly overwhelming, but I stop and put a hand to my forehead. I can’t just call this off. Focus on the goal: to be free—to be my own person. I’ll have to find a way to deal with Preston after my lawyers successfully expatriate Peery Diamonds from Nesovia to the States.

But the fact that I’m stuck in this awful situation is like cement being forced down my throat. Desperately ignoring the rage pounding through me, I stride to the bedroom and shove the double doors open with a crash. I glare at the giant bed, where Preston’s on top of some woman I can’t see. His ass stops in midair.

“What the fuck?” he yells, craning his neck. “Who the—”

Our eyes meet. All color leaves his face. His Adam’s apple bobs; his mouth opens and stays that way, making him look like a particularly dim-witted chicken.

Can we still proceed with the wedding if I cut his balls off? It isn’t like we’ll need them. I certainly won’t. His filthy, indiscreet, cheating penis isn’t getting anywhere near me.

“Oh, shit,” he whispers.

“What’s wrong, baby? Just tell them to go away,” the woman beneath him says in an annoying, nasal whine.

My blood roars. This better not be who I think it is.

The woman shifts to look at me. And it’s exactly who I think it is—Vonnie.

“Oh, it’s just you,” she says.

I should’ve brought a vase in here—to crack it over her head.

“Why are you acting so mad? I’m more his type anyway,” she adds.

Despite the fact that we have the same father, we look nothing alike. She took after her mother—dark eyes, dark hair and a petite build that brings out the protectiveness in men. Unlike Karl, her nose is correctly proportioned, and her features are delicately carved.

I took after my grandfather—who gave me platinum-blond hair and pale blue eyes that some gossip sites call “hard and unfeeling,” and a tall, statuesque frame, which is often referred to as “intimidating” and “domineering.”

“You’re fucking my sister?” I demand to Preston, rage thundering in my veins.

“I can explain!” He puts a hand out. He doesn’t bother to glance at Vonnie.

But I do, and I notice something else that triples my blood pressure. “Are those my shoes?”

“It isn’t like you were wearing them,” Vonnie says, sitting up and defiantly tossing her hair over a shoulder. She doesn’t bother to hide her nakedness.

“They’re brand new Guccis I picked up in Milan!” Last week, as a matter of fact, for today’s photoshoot. What an idiot I’ve been. The realization that I’ve wasted so much of my time and energy renews my fury.

“So?”

“So take them off before I cut off your feet!”

“Oh my God, you’re going to wear the shoes I wore while fucking your fiancé?” Vonnie throws the stilettos on the spot near me, since she doesn’t have the balls to throw them at me. She doesn’t want to provoke me too much. She never forgot about the burnt pearls—and some other things I’ve done since.

“No, I’m going to fantasize they’re your face while I pour acid on them.” I grab a pillow, strip it of its case and shove the shoes inside. Then I straighten and regard the anxious Preston, ready to give him the tongue lashing he so richly deserves.

“I was doing this for you,” he says quickly.

“What? In what crazy universe is any of this for me?”

He stretches his arms out beseechingly. “This was a dress rehearsal for the photoshoot. I was getting nervous about it, you know, because we have to show everyone how much we’re in love with each other, so I asked Vonnie to help me.”

“Help you what?”

“You know. Practice.”

Holy mother of God. Horror starts to mix into my rage. I’m engaged to an idiot. Actually, calling him an idiot is an insult to all the idiots of the world. There has to be some other term reserved just for this, this…

Vonnie smirks and lifts her left hand. A pink, fifteen-carat, heart-shaped diamond winks on her ring finger.

I stare at the hideous monstrosity. That’s what he chose over my blue diamond? What am I? Five? I hate pink and I hate hearts. If Preston had bothered to check my preferences, he would’ve known.

“And your penis just happened to fall into her vagina when you slid that ring onto her finger?” It occurs to me that the Guccis inside the pillowcase would make a pretty good weapon. Would beating him bloody be a crime in Spain, given the circumstances?

“I kind of slipped,” Preston says.

They’re Latin. They’ll understand.

“He was sleeping with me before you took him from me!” Vonnie yells, throwing gasoline onto the fire. “I had him first!”

“Vonnie!” he hisses.

“Then why did he agree to be my fiancé?” I say, not bothering to hide the disgust coloring my voice.

She merely glares. Typical. She always does that when she has nothing to say. Then she smirks. “He might’ve agreed to be your fiancé for money or whatever. But it’s me he wants.”

Humiliation burns my face. Men generally prefer Vonnie over me. They call her nicer and sweeter. I’m an impossible bitch because I won’t tolerate crap from anybody, including my so-called family. She’s gotten worse since Grandfather’s death because he left her nothing. She thought she’d be able to get something for all the sucking up she’d done over the years.

“I just want you to know, it’s you I want to marry, Lucienne,” Preston says quickly.

“Fuck off. You’re fired!” I start to walk away. I’ve seen enough, and my brain feels like it’s full of nuclear toxic waste. If he’d cheated on me with some anonymous hooker, I might’ve overlooked it—because I’m just that desperate at this point—but Vonnie?

No. I just can’t. I’ll have to find a new husband.

“Wait, what? You can’t do that! I’m your fiancé!” The bed creaks as he hops off to follow me.

“Uh-huh. And who just had his penis in my half-sister’s vagina?” I continue my march to the door.

“Lucienne, please. I only got to thrust, like, twice. I didn’t even get to come!” Like that excuses what I had to witness. “What about my money? The company I’m supposed to get?”

“Take it up with your grandparents.”

“Wait!” He wraps his hand around my wrist. “But the ring! It’s really pretty. Don’t you want it on your finger? It’s huge! Fifteen-point-one carats!”

Okay, so stupid and blind. No one with any taste would think that ring was pretty or deserved to grace my hand. “What was it you said, Preston?” I give him my most sugary voice. “Dicks are like diamonds.” My gaze flickers down, then rises back to his face, and I smile. “I’ve seen bigger and better.”

His face turns dull red.

Dropping the fake smile, I break his hold and start to walk out.

“You bitch! Who the hell’s gonna marry you?”

“Oh, I’ll think of someone.” I don’t turn back, and the door closes behind me.