SWNOVELS Contractually Yours: Chapter 9
As I walk into the office after my brunch meeting with our regional retail manager, Otto gives me a sympathetic look in the elevator. Penny glances at me like she doesn’t know what to say as I step out.
And Christoph clears his throat as he follows me into my office. “I’m not sure if you saw the news articles…”
“Is that what we’re calling groundless gossip these days?”
“Er…” His eyes shift like he can’t figure out how he should respond. “No…?”
It isn’t his fault he’s nervous. I’ve never been the subject of lurid gossip before, and he probably has no clue how to react. “I saw them,” I say.
It was impossible not to, even though I don’t do social media or read gossip-rag junk. Noah’s addicted to every social media app there is, and he reads every word like the salvation of his soul depends on it. When he sees something about the brothers or somebody we know, he group-texts so we can be in the know as well.
This morning I woke up to over thirty texts from my brothers, all of whom were acting like a bunch of high school girls. On the other hand, maybe they were worried because it’s my first time in this particular type of spotlight.
–Noah: Whoa, I didn’t know you were dating Gabriella Ricci.
–Emmett: You broke up with her, right?
–Griffin: Of course he did. Seb wouldn’t be seen with Lucienne if he were still dating Gabriella.
–Emmett: Just making sure.
–Noah: What does she think she’s going to get by claiming Lucienne stole Seb from her?
–Nicholas: She never said that. The writer just implied it.
–Grant: That’s a good shot to go with the story. Look at Gabriella crying.
–Huxley: That’s not a recent picture.
–Griffin: How do you know?
–Noah: Fewer wrinkles.
–Huxley: That’s a shot from an ad campaign she did with us a couple years ago. I don’t know how it got leaked. We don’t share unpublished campaign material with anybody.
Huxley owns an ad agency, and he remembers all the details about every campaign his agency has done. His family disapproves of his refusal to use his judicial chops at their legal dynasty of Huxley & Webber. He only attended Harvard Law to placate his grandmother, then went into advertising.
–Emmett: Could’ve been your client. Regardless, this story’s nasty.
–Noah: Yeah, it makes Lucienne look like a bitch who stole Sebastian.
–Nicholas: Gabriella’s pretty and popular, so she’s going to get a lot of sympathy. The public’s going to tear Lucienne down. Maybe Seb, too.
I read the first two links Noah sent. Nicholas is correct. The comments are full of hate directed at Lucienne. Jezebel, from the religious nuts. Jumped-up side-piece. Home-wrecker. Ludicrous, since Gabriella and I weren’t serious enough to move in together. A few call me an asshole. I’ve heard worse.
Gabriella texted me, too.
–Gabriella: FYI the media stuff has nothing to do with me. I never gave a statement.
Oh, I know. It’s the damn paparazzi and their asshole writers. They had two shots of me and Lucienne outside Gion, and that only seems to fan the flames.
–Gabriella: But if you want me to, I can say something to set the record straight. But I left you, not the other way around. You can do that much for me, right?
Figures. Her pride can’t handle anything else, and not even black pearls can sooth those ruffled feathers.
–Me: Spin it however you like.
My grandparents and mother tried to call. I ignored them. Preston has sent me whiny texts, as usual.
–Preston: I didn’t know you were dating Gabriella Ricci! Damn, she’s hot.
–Preston: Anyway, be careful with Lucienne. She’s desperate to get married. But she’s a bitch! A heartless ho!
He’s apparently forgotten what he did—shoving his dick into her sister’s pussy. But then, he has the brain of an amoeba. An amoeba with amnesia.
Oddly enough, the one person who should’ve demanded to talk to me is silent. Nothing from Lucienne—not a single text or call. Either she hasn’t seen the trash, or she doesn’t think I’m the person she should reach out to draft a statement to set the record straight.
I’m skeptical about the former and irritated about the latter. My mood is darker than it should be because I can’t pinpoint exactly why the second possibility is so grating.
I shrug out of my suit jacket. Christoph takes it and hangs it up.
“Any calls?” I ask as I take a seat at my desk.
“Your mother—twice—to see if you were in. Your grandmother called, too. Three times. I told them to try you directly, but they said you weren’t answering your phone. Do you need me to charge it?”
I hold my phone up to show him the charged battery. “No. I’m not answering calls from my family right now.” They don’t get to judge me or give me shit about what the tabloids published. “Did anybody else call about the gossip?” Maybe Lucienne called the office for some reason, although she has my number.
“No.”
“Okay. Make a lunch reservation for me and Lucienne and text her with the details.”
“And if she has another appointment?” Christoph asks.
“Tell her surely she needs to eat.”
* * *
Lucienne doesn’t say no to lunch. She shows up at Nieve, an elegant bistro inside the Aylster Hotel, on time. Christoph did well to pick this venue because the ambiance is romantic, almost bridal, with its ivory color scheme. A lot of couples have dates here.
On the other hand, it isn’t the best place because it’s on the first floor and two of the walls are floor-to-ceiling glass. Anyone can peer inside if they want, and the disastrous articles are still trending. There’s nothing more exciting than a love affair gone wrong, especially when it involves famous people writhing with jealousy and love-hate. Of course, there’s none of that in reality, but then, reality isn’t important. People don’t stay glued to their screens for the truth, but for entertainment. The messier the better. If they could, they’d bring out a pool of mud for us to dive into.
Lucienne walks in, a huge pair of sunglasses covering most of her face. But that doesn’t mean the other patrons don’t recognize her. You can’t miss the striking height and regal bearing as she struts into the restaurant. She takes off her sunglasses and drops them into her Birkin purse. A two-piece skirt suit in dark blue-green flows over her curves, ending around mid-thigh. She’s in a pair of strappy heels, and a diamond anklet winks with each confident step.
As she reaches me, her eyes flick to the other customers. They’re pretending to eat, but you can’t miss their gazes darting in our direction.
I rise to greet her. She hugs me, dispensing air kisses. Her breasts press against my chest, and her soft floral scent washes over me. Lust stirs in my gut, and her smile is overbright. I wonder if she knows the effect she has on men. On me.
Yes, I decide as a mischievous gleam sparkles in her eyes. It’s annoying that my body responds to her at all, especially after Gabriella’s little display did nothing. Lucienne’s suit covers everything.
“For me?” she says when she sees the bouquet of tiger lilies.
“Yes. I figured I should provide my own prop, since I’m the one who called for this date.”
She brightens in what seems to be genuine pleasure, looking at the lilies like it’s been forever since anybody bought her flowers. It’s disturbing because she shouldn’t react like this—and I shouldn’t be feeling like a caveman who just single-handedly killed a mammoth and brought it home for his woman. Lucienne must’ve received hundreds of flowers, thousands of gifts. Or maybe she’s only been around coke snorters who squander all their money on drugs.
A wing of golden hair slides forward as she buries her nose in the lilies. She straightens and casually flicks it back with one hand, a huge Toi et Moi diamond and sapphire ring sparkling on her fourth finger. The stones are set in a simple platinum band, which emphasizes the extraordinary cut and size of each one—at least seven carats for the diamond, and a lot more for the sapphire because they appear smaller at the same carat size as a diamond.
She notices me looking. “Like it?”
“It’s pretty.” I go along with her for now, since she doesn’t seem interested in talking about the tabloid crap. “You have good taste.”
Toi et Moi rings used to be fairly popular. Some even have historical value. The one Napoleon gave to Joséphine de Beauharnaise sold for about seven hundred and thirty thousand Euros at an auction some ten years ago. Grandmother was upset she couldn’t win it, but she was down with pneumonia. Grandfather wasn’t going to leave her side to bid on a ring, even one that famous, and Mother wasn’t going to cut her vacation short, since she doesn’t care for jewelry auctions. She’s an art collector.
“Thank you. And I’m glad you like it. What I’m thinking is, it’s the engagement ring you gave me yesterday when you proposed at Gion.” She gives me a comically broad wink. “I would’ve put it on sooner, but had to get it resized.”
“Why are we doing this?”
“So that the scandal rag writers won’t have anything that sounds off to pick at when we get married.”
I think it through. “Makes sense. We got engaged at the restaurant, which no one saw because of the partitions. But you weren’t wearing a ring when we kissed outside Gion, and this story explains that little anomaly.”
“Exactly.” She leans closer. “Sound plausible?”
“Plausible enough. Except I would have never brought you a ring that didn’t fit.” Part of me is irked with myself for not thinking of the ring sooner. The most important prop in an engagement or wedding—no matter how fake—is the ring.
She shrugs. “If it makes you feel better, you can tell everyone my finger was too thick.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The casual way she puts herself down scrapes my nerves. “If anyone asks, we’ll just say it was my error.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but the waiter interrupts our conversation. I ask for the lunch special, and she orders French toast with two strips of bacon on the side, explaining, “I love breakfast, especially French toast. Nieve has some of the best in the city.”
I wait for our server to leave. “Where are your PR people?”
“Taking a lunch break, I suppose. Why?”
She’s either stupid or deliberately obtuse. My money’s on the latter. “Didn’t they see what happened?”
“Oh, the articles?” She blinks like she’s shocked I’m bringing them up. “Do they bother you?”
“Bother me? I’m not the one people are calling names. Well, mostly.”
“I know.” Her tone says she doesn’t understand what the problem is.
“Don’t you want to explain things? Set the record straight?”
“My policy is never explain, never complain. Just makes things worse.” Her lips are curved into a perfect smile, and she tilts her head in that playful don’t-you-agree? way. But a glimmer of resignation and bitterness fleets across her face like a rain cloud. It isn’t that she doesn’t want to explain herself—she’s convinced nobody will believe her. And she’s going to cope by pretending she isn’t affected, no matter how many people point fingers and judge her.
Without thinking, I reach over and take her hand in mine, the two stones on her Toi et Moi pricking my palm. Her mouth sags slightly as she stares at me.
Shit. I didn’t mean to do that, but when she’s trying to be brave in the face of unjust criticism, I just…
I just don’t like people getting screwed for something they didn’t do, I tell myself. I still haven’t forgiven her for forcing me into this untenable marriage.
“No fiancée of mine will put up with bullshit,” I say.
Her face colors. “It’ll blow over.” She clears her throat. “But are you and Gabriella okay?”
The unguarded concern throws me off for a second. “We’re fine.” Although stuff like this irritates me, whether she admits it or not, Gabriella loves the attention. To her, the worst thing that can happen is nobody talking about her.
Relief eases the set of Lucienne’s shoulders. Her consideration is surprising. It also makes me wonder if she’s really as terrible as the stories make her out to be. My dad wouldn’t have given a damn. The idea that I could’ve judged her too harshly is disquieting. “You seem unwilling to have your PR team earn their salary, so I’ll take care of it.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t know what to make of the offer.
“What? It’s not a trap,” I say, annoyed at her wariness.
“I… That isn’t…” She sighs. “Right now, they’re after me. If you try to get in the way, they might go after you, too. It isn’t worth it.”
I hold her gaze, oscillating between being touched and insulted. “I’m a big boy. And I can shield you from those wolves.”
She shifts. “All right, then. I’ll leave it up to you.” She straightens her shoulders. “But you may not have to do anything. It might be easier to quash the gossip if we just go ahead and elope as soon as possible.”
“Elope?”
“You wanted a very basic civil ceremony without any guests, and an impulsive elopement fits the bill perfectly.”
True…
“A friend of mine is a judge in San Francisco, and he agreed to officiate the ceremony for us. Tomorrow at five thirty, if that’s something you can manage. It’s Thursday, so the timing might be a little tight, especially with us having to be back for work on Friday. But we can pick another date if you want. I’m sure he can be flexible.”
The rushed timing is surprising—I didn’t think she was the type to act so fast. The contract between my family and her specifies that we get married before the year’s over, but there’s no point in delaying things. I don’t need a chore I can’t escape hanging over me for the rest of the year. It’ll just sap my mental energy. “Tomorrow’s fine.”
“Excellent.” She beams. “And thank you for being so agreeable. I’ll have our rings ready.”