Page 15 of The Worst Pucking Deal

Remus snorts. “How ironic that you, of all people, have found a job that’s all about being dishonest and unethical. Isn’t that part of why you wanted to leave the family? Because you found us controlling and immoral?”

“That’s not it at all,” I volley. Feeling indignant, he’s making it sound like it’s a shady business. “People are people. They aren’t perfect, but I help people get what they want.”

“Explain.” The demand is sharp, his tone making it clear the niceties are over.

It takes everything in me not to react to the shift in his attitude, but I refuse to let him see how affected—scared—I am. “What I’m doing isn’t really for the players, Remus. I help shape their image and manage their social media accounts so the fans get what they want, what they expect. Some of them live for a reply, a like, or a share from their icon. What I do is for the fans. They believe in the players. Some even feel a connection to them, and I help strengthen that by giving them what it is they’re looking for.”

I know Remus wants to grill me further, and probably call me out for being such a dreamer—that’s what his dad called me when he agreed to let me move away. But luckily two servers join us, delivering the food and topping up our drinks. They don’t speak at all, barely even look at us.

During my years away, I’ve learned I suffer from a self-diagnosed disease that makes it damn near impossible to keep my mouth shut even when I know I should. So avoiding saying something I shouldn’t, I quickly dig into the food. On my plate is a green salad masterfully placed to look all fancy. The potato slices form a heart around the chicken breast, which is covered in bacon with cream cheese in the middle. My mouth salivates, and it feels like it’s taking forever to slice into the tender meat.

“Mhmm,” I moan as the herbs and spices the chicken has been marinated in wrap around my tongue. “That’s delicious.” Using my fork, I push the greens to the side because with how good this is, I need to prioritize. I’m not a salad eater on my best of days, and I’m definitely not one to choose it over meat and carbs.

I make it through three bites before Remus puts his cutlery down. “You need to come home, Luce. People are questioning why you’re still allowed to roam around free.” I nod to show him I’m listening, but I don’t stop eating. “Your deal with my dad was for ten years, which is coming up next month on your twenty-eighth birthday. Have you made preparations to leave yet?”

The food suddenly tastes like ash on my tongue, and I reach for my water to help it down. When I feel like I can breathe again, I say, “Romulus made it clear I could earn my freedom if—”

Remus makes an impatient sound. “I know what my dad said. The agreement is that you would be free if you got married. But Luce, you’re not even dating. So don’t insult me by giving me some elaborate lie about getting married.”

“How would you know?” I volley.

He lets out a mirthless laugh. “Because if you truly were about to get married, you would have asked me for a divorce.”

My blood runs cold at his words. “A divorce?” I croak. “But I thought…” Trailing off, I try to recall my uncle’s exact words. He set me free from my marriage, but… did he ever say divorce? Shit, I can’t remember.

“I see you’re finally getting it,” Remus says. “Giving you ten years of freedom isn’t the same as granting you a divorce. Your marriage might only be a technicality, but it still exists on paper, Luce.”

Scoffing, I ask, “Don’t tell me Fabian has spent ten years being a faithful husband missing his wife.”

“Of course not,” Remus snorts. “Your time away gave you both a temporary separation—”

“But then why—”

“Stop fucking interrupting me,” he roars, slamming his fist down on the table. The cutlery and glasses shake on the table at the impact, and it’s making the hairs on my neck rise as a sliver of cold runs down my spine. “Once your time is up, you revert to your marital status.”

Giving up on the food, I push the plate away and fold my arms over my chest to hide my trembling hands. “Whatever’s going on or not going on in my life is none of your business, Remus. At least not for the next month,” I say, getting us back to the beginning since I don’t know how to feel about this, any of it.

This can’t be fucking happening. Married… hell fucking no. I’ll slit my own throat before I ever return to my husband’s side.

Remus rakes a hand through his hair and down his neck. The movement and the heaviness in his eyes make him look much older than the twenty-two years he is, and I can’t help feeling bad for him. It’s not my cousin I’m fighting. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. It’s the fact he wants to control me I have an issue with. But I also know that isn’t who he is, it’s just who he had to become when his dad died and he took over.

“Is this really how you want to do this?” he asks, giving me a look I can’t decipher.

Rather than answering him, I repeat my previous statement. “I have one more month of freedom. What I do with it is up to me.” Maybe I’m wrong, but I could have sworn I see begrudging respect in the way he’s looking at me. I hope I’m reading him correctly, because if not… nope, can’t think about that. I have to stand my ground.

Remus picks his knife and fork back up and resumes eating. He chews slowly, like he’s thinking too hard to focus on his food. Since I don’t have that problem, I dive back into the chicken. Like my cousin, I chew slower than normal. But it’s not because my head is full of important thoughts. Or maybe that’s the exact reason, I can no longer tell as my thoughts run rampant.

I probably should think of ways to get out of my deal. Make suggestions or cut another deal, but I know it wouldn’t help. The only reason he isn’t hauling my ass back to Rome at this very moment is because he’s honoring the deal I made with his dad.

“You know,” I say as soon as I’m done eating and the servers have cleared the table. “I don’t hate all the family, Remus. You know I love you. Some of my life in Rome was good, but the bad parts overshadowed that.”

Remus opens his mouth to answer, but before he can say anything, the servers come back with dessert and coffee. Once they’re gone, my cousin arches an eyebrow and casually leans back in his chair while swirling his wine. “Why are you telling me this?”

Eyeing the elaborate dessert in front of me, I pick up my spoon. It’s a chocolate bowl filled with fresh fruit and what looks like sorbet. Wasting no time, I eagerly dive in. All the flavors explode on my tongue immediately, and damn, it’s good.

“Luce,” Remus says. His tone makes it sound like a warning, but when I look at him he’s smiling.

Oh, right. He asked me why I was telling him I don’t hate the entire family. It's a good question, but the answer isn’t. The reason I’m telling him is that I want him to know I’m not coming home. Not now, not ever. “Because you’re wrong. Because you’re not all-knowing.”

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