Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
The crowds, the touching, the judgment …
The all-too-familiar rush to reach for a bottle of alcohol and drown inside it snakes beneath my skin.
One reason to cancel: I can’t expose her to my family’s cruelty.
Two reasons to go: If I don’t, they’ll never believe this is real. If I don’t, my mother might stoop low enough to start putting these poor women into my bed in hopes they will turn me straight. A chanting prayer echoes in my head, followed by the crack of a belt.
Fuck this. I give in to temptation and snatch the nearest bottle of alcohol off the table, twist off the cap, and swallow, letting it burn away the memories.
Three reasons I’m terrified: Because it is real. Because I’m falling for her. Fuck, I already have. I’m obsessed with her, and the moment we shared in my bed when I claimed her sealed the deal for me. If I’m being honest, none of this was ever fake, at least on my side.
I’m a mess, a fucking mess, but I don’t want to let her go. I also don’t want to drag her deeper into my shit.
But isn’t that why you approached her in the first place? To be your fake girlfriend?
My phone buzzes again with Mother’s text—event details attached with a note about appropriate attire. As if I don’t know how to dress for a formal fucking event. As if I haven’t been performing for their approval my entire life.
Except it’s different this time.
This time, more is at stake. I can no longer worry only about myself. I did this and asked her to pretend for me. I can’t leave her to be thrown to the wolves. Still, my doubts linger. We’ve been preparing for this exact scenario, but I don’t know if she’s ready. I guess my only option is to make it as easy as possible for her, just like she makes things easier for me.
I grab my phone and search my contacts for the number to our family tailor.
If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. And fake girlfriend or not, I’ll make certain that Salem outshines every real society princess in that ballroom.
Which means I’ll need to find her the perfect dress.
Putting the bottle of alcohol down, I pull out my laptop. I focus my attention on scouring the internet for dresses. Forty-three minutes later, I’m scrolling through designer dresses on a website the tailor sent me while my brain runs calculations.
Not just sizes and prices—those are irrelevant when you have the Sterling name—but all the little details that matter to Salem.
Fabric that won’t irritate her skin. Nothing so restrictive that it might trigger a panic attack. A cut that makes her feel protected but stunning. Something that says “I belong here” to all the vultures who’ll be watching her every move. Frustration mounts the longer I search for the perfect dress that never appears.
Instead of tossing my laptop out the window, I shoot Bel a text.
Me: SOS. Trying to find a dress for Salem.
I navigate back to the browser and scroll through the page.
“No, no, definitely not …” I mutter, rejecting another dozen options. Too much exposed skin. Too many beads that could fall off and disrupt her counting. Too—
Thankfully, Bel replies to my text right then.
Bel: Hold please. I have the perfect dress.
Me: You’re the best. If I was with you, I would kiss you right now.
My phone buzzes with a response that only includes a link. I click on it, and it brings me to some boutique. The screen loads, and I damn near gasp at the sight of the dress on the screen. It’s fucking perfect—deep burgundy silk that will make Salem’s brown eyes look soft and sparkling, a high neck for modesty, long sleeves that will meet her gloves, and a flowing skirt that won’t make her feel trapped.
Me: Scratch that. I would marry you.
Me: But the gloves …
Bel: Already handled.
Lifesaver. If Drew doesn’t marry her, I may consider it.
All I can do is smile when another message comes through with a link. I click on it, and once again, I’m so thankful that one of my best friends found such a great-ass woman.
The website is for custom silk gloves from some designer I’ve never heard of, available in three different lengths and styles. The price tag is astronomical, but the description promises the softest silk imaginable.
One pair in classic elbow length. The next opera length with tiny pearl buttons.
Fuck it. I buy three different pairs to make her feel safe and elegant at the same time.
I smile, and the desire to share this news and excitement with Salem bubbles out of me. I should text her. Yes. But then I pause, the impulsive reaction fading into fear. Fear of failing, of fucking this all up. How do I explain that I’m not doing this all for show, that she’s not some trophy I want to show off? That I want her to feel as beautiful as I see her?