Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Chapter four
Everleigh
What was I thinking? A million dollars is already a crazy amount. Why was I adding more to that?
In all fairness, it’s no less than his asshat, scheming, lying, horrible, two-timing, poo pants of a brother deserves but instead, it's going to cost his maybe not-so-bad brother. I’m still undecided on the not-so-bad part. I’ve been whisked away on a private jet to a location I still am unsure about, and my phone is nowhere in sight. I’m in a palatial room that is dripping in opulence, from the dark burgundy wallpaper to the plush rugs on the wide plank hardwood floors to the wainscoting and crown molding and fancy chandelier. All this for a bedroom, and one the house’s main occupant clearly doesn’t even use. The furniture, if sold, could probably pay for six months to a year of all our household bills combined.
We’ll discuss it at dinner.
That’s what Darius said when I’d asked for two million. I just pulled that number out of my ass because I was pissed and it sounded good to say. His lips had twitched, and then he instructed his goon of the month to untie me. When I saw the smile he was trying to hide, I knew I should have asked for more. The guy probably makes a million dollars a freaking minute or some crap I can’t comprehend.
And the worst part? I’ve been up here brooding about it for a few hours now, alone, without my phone or anything to do but worry. And think about my captor. I mean husband of convenience. He’s freaking handsome as sin—okay, his arm being all operated on and painful and scarred and sad-looking kind of makes me feel for him, but that’s neither here nor there—and richer than god. What the heck have I gotten myself into?
Even worse, when I got bored and started to explore the room, I found a dresser as well as a huge walk-in closet full of clothes, and they were all in my size. I suppose Bradford Asshole Lion the Turd filled his brother in, and he had someone do some personal shopping ahead of time.
Which was kind of nice of him, I guess.
I’d like to thwart him by not wearing any of it, but I don’t want to have dinner in the gauzy wedding dress from earlier. I say earlier because I have no idea what time it is or how long I’ve been out for. I want to say a few hours, but that would make it the middle of the night. Do people have dinner in the early hours of the morning? I freaking hope so because I’m starved. After I got over the shaking, the aching head, and the nasty tumbling tummy from the chloroform, I realized I was starving.
I’m feeling more than good enough now that I’m able to pick out a comfy-looking, flowy black dress that goes to my knees and a black cardigan that lands almost in the same spot. Next, I choose a pair of fuzzy pink slippers as a bit of a middle finger, and a fuck no, I’m not getting dressed up for this.
Then, I wait.
And wait.
Until finally, someone knocks at the door, and I hear it being unlocked because, yes, the goon locked me in here after he and Darius left. When the door opens, it’s said goon with all his tattoos and bulk and scariness that he’s perfected.
He gives me an approving once over and grins when he notes my choice of footwear. I think he actually likes the fuzzy pink, damn it.
“Dinner be ready. If you’d like to come and eat, my lady.”
I huff back a sigh. I’m so not rising to that. Not sure what’s up with the accents, but it’s probably yet another tool to throw people off or drive them crazy. I’m not even sure what that one was. Middle ages something or other? I let my fuzzy pink slippers lead me out of the room as I follow behind the big hulking figure.
I’ve managed not to shed a single tear about this whole bait-and-switch and basically being kidnapped thing, which is a marvel. At least I won’t be going to the middle-of-the-night dinner with swollen eyes. I’m going to need to be tough to bargain. Everyone underestimated me, but maybe that’s a good thing. I can use it to my advantage. I can drive a hard deal even in fuzzy pink slippers.
The house is a maze of doors and wainscoting, dark colors, fancy artwork, heavy drapery, chandeliers, and more artwork. It’s exactly like what I thought it would be—a fortress. But not like the rocky, craggy kind of castle-style fortress. No, it’s the kind of fourteen to twenty-million-dollar house that is extremely old school and built in another century. It’s the kind of place that probably does have stone on the outside, and on the inside, it has at least forty-three rooms.