I find it difficult to tear my eyes away from Iris as we walk down the aisle toward the exit of the church. She is the embodiment of elegance and grace, with her smile as dazzling as the new diamond band on her finger. The ring serves as a reminder of her promise to me.
I wasn’t sure if we would ever make it to this point. After my failed engagement, I thought we would hit a snag. That maybe Iris would wake up one day and decide this was a huge mistake. But finally, for the first time in two weeks, I feel relief.
The pressure against my chest lessens with each step away from the altar. With one part of my inheritance complete, I only have one more standing in my way of becoming CEO.
Make it through the rest of today before worrying about that.
I twist my wedding ring with my thumb, testing the feel of the metal pressing against my skin. It doesn’t feel as oppressive as I expected. Iris chose a simple band that draws little attention to the eye. Both of our rings get a single message across.
Married.
Two ushers open the doors. Together, Iris and I walk out into the bright sunlight overhead. One of the photographers stops in front of us and yells out our names. I wrap an arm around Iris’s waist and pull her against me, ignoring the way she tenses in my grasp.
Her reaction doesn’t surprise me, but it still frustrates me. After the heated kiss we shared, I thought she would have gotten used to my touch by now, but I was wrong. She erected another barrier between us instead. The detached look on her face has me testing boundaries. I want to recreate the look on her face right after our kiss, before the reality of our situation set in.
I run my hand down her back, tracing the row of ivory buttons. She does nothing but shoot me a cold smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I absolutely despise it.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I whisper in her ear before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Her fake laugh grates against my nerves. “Why would anything be wrong?”
I grimace. “You don’t look happy.”
“Unlike you, some of us can’t fake it 24/7.” Her voice can barely be heard over a gust of wind.
“What are you talking—”
“Let’s get a photo of a kiss before they let the guests out!” the photographer yells.
I grin at the nervous laugh Iris lets out. The click of the camera goes off, catching the moment.
“I think they’re coming out now,” Iris calls out.
“Then make it quick!” he replies back.
I shouldn’t give in to his demand, but I’m interested in seeing if our kiss was a one-off or a testament to our chemistry. The kiss I shared with Iris in the church was electric. The kind that shouldn’t feel as good as it did, given our circumstance.
The kind I am about to recreate with the hope that the buzz I got after was only a product of achieving the first task of my inheritance.
My arms curl around Iris’s back, tugging her against me. Her lips part and her eyes shut as I lean forward. Sparks break out across my skin as our lips touch, and liquid heat spreads through my veins. Kissing her is addictive. Thrilling. So damn wrong I can’t help questioning why it isn’t right.
She’s your assistant.
I nip at her bottom lip to distract myself from the thought. She gasps, and I suck up the sound before it has a chance to be heard by the photographer.
You’re paying her to have your child.
My kiss turns more punishing, and she seems to respond well to my desperation. She groans as her arms wrap around my neck. Her bouquet tickles my skin, and I’m surrounded by the smell of flowers and Iris.
The photographer coughs. “All right. I got the shot.”
Reality hits me like a bucket of ice water, and I break away before I tug Iris back against me and repeat our kiss for more selfish purposes than a photo. Our kiss wasn’t some fluke or a high I got from completing my grandfather’s request. It’s far worse than that.
Iris blinks up at me with dilated eyes.
She is affected by you too.
It should fill me with some relief to know she is equally struggling, but I’m far too concerned about the fall-out of a discovery like this.
Before I have a chance to wrap my mind around what is happening between us, the doors behind me open. Hundreds of guests pour out of the church. They gather in a circle, suffocating us. I hate the way they batter us with compliments almost as much as I despise the way the crowd grows larger by the minute.
Iris latches onto my hand. “Relax. Focus on me.”
That’s my issue. I can’t focus on anything but her.
I can’t bear looking at her for longer than a few seconds. The urge to steal her away from the crowd is difficult to ignore, and it wouldn’t take much for me to crack.
Remember what’s important here.
Iris remains silent as we are both shuffled into the Maybach. I spend the entire car ride to the reception location reminding myself of how acting on my attraction is not possible. Regardless of the two kisses we shared, nothing matters more than keeping things professional between us. We have far too much riding on our positions to be getting lost in a fleeting attraction to one another.
My future is more important than satisfying some momentary urge to kiss Iris. I just need to keep telling myself that.
I hate weddings. They’re a cliché excuse for people to drink alcohol on my tab, all while pretending they actually care about my new marriage. They don’t. Everyone is solely here because no one would be stupid enough to turn down an invitation to what Iris deemed the wedding of the decade.
Unfortunately for me, I still have three more hours to get through, including cutting a cake right now.
A different photographer from earlier calls out for us to look at the camera. “Can I get a shot of you two with the cake?”
“Why did we agree to so many damn photos?” I frown as I grab the silver cake cutter from a server’s tray.
Iris smiles up at me. “Because we are going to share snapshots with the world to prove just how much we love one another.”
“Why should they care?”
She laughs, and the bulb of the camera goes off. “Because you’re a famous billionaire who is in the business of selling fairy tales.”
I groan. “Fame is temporary.”
“So is discomfort, so get used to it.” She presses her hand on top of mine so we are both grasping onto the knife.
Being near her is the furthest thing from uncomfortable. Rather, the warmth of her touch sends a wave of want through me. I step closer to her so we can both approach the cake.
You’re pathetic. What happened to not wanting to get close to people?
I shake my head. I’m not trying to grow closer to Iris, but it’s hard to avoid her when everyone keeps pushing us together.
“Declan, a little more smiling please?”
I glare at the photographer.
He gapes. “Never mind.” His flash goes off, catching me mid-death stare.
Iris laughs. “I need that one sent to me ASAP.”
I shoot her a look, and she only laughs harder. My chest tightens at the sound. Compared to the icy display she put on earlier for our guests, it feels good to make her warm back up to me.
And this is why you need to stay away from her. Because this feeling in your chest?
Merde.
The photographer snaps another photo before I dismiss him. My mood takes a turn for the worse, and I barely pay Iris any attention as we cut the cake. We go through all the motions. She feeds me and I feed her. A few people gasp when she smashes a bit of cake in my face, and I return the favor by shoving a spoonful of cake into her mouth while she is mid-laugh.
Nothing about it is real. I’m detached, but not enough to miss the flicker of hurt in her eyes when I abandon her for the bar. I’m a dick for leaving her to manage the crowd that formed around us. I know it with every fiber in me, just like I know sticking around her is weakening my resolve.
I didn’t marry her for love, money, or affection. I married her because I’m a greedy asshole who will stop at nothing to get what I want, even if it means subjecting her to the same fucked-up happily ever after as me. A few kisses and some touching isn’t going to change our destiny, so why pretend this is anything but an arrangement?
It’s all for the best. At least I tell myself as much as I knock back my first drink of the night.
Alcohol doesn’t solve anyone’s problems.
My stomach rolls. The feeling has nothing to do with the drink I burned through and everything to do with the idea of using alcohol to cope. A bartender rushes over to fill my glass, but I push the empty tumbler out of reach.
You’re not him.
I step away from the bar before I do something I will regret.
