Page 45 of The Heiress

“And if she tells me she’s sorry?”

Lorde shakes her head. “Tell her it’s okay, but not if it means crawling back into a closet. This isn’t their era anymore. Trust me when I say we’re gonna be okay.”

“You’re really not going to let me run, are you?”

“Baby,” she says, arms tight around me, “I’ll chase you to the ends of the earth. But if you run in heels, I’ll be doubly impressed.”

This time, I don’t cry. Not because I’m not overwhelmed. Not because I’m not scared.

Vegas is two hours away. And for the first time in my life, I will completely own who I am.

Daisy DeMonte, scandalous heiress.

Chapter 23

Lorde

I’ve done some reckless things in my life. Posed nude in a beach shoot. Accidentally flirted with a mafia don’s daughter when he wasright there. Played chicken on an ATV for a YouTube collab.

But marrying Daisy DeMonte in Las Vegas with enough adrenaline to kill an elephant?

Yeah. This is my masterpiece.

The jet touches down, and I feel that momentary shift. Gravity has pulled us down back to Earth. It’s metaphorical and literal, and it hits me square in the chest. I glance over. Daisy’s looking out the window, in awe of the Strip only a few miles away. Almost as if she’d never seen it before. Impossible. I know this is where all of her friends have their birthday parties.

God, I love her. Two months ago, all I could think about was teasing her until she was red in the face. Fucking the priss out of her. Knocking this princess off her diamond-encrusted throne.

She catches me staring. “Not backing out, are you?”

“Merely marveling at how hot you look when you’re rethinking all your life choices.”

“Sooo mature.”

“But accurate.” I lace our fingers together. “Now, come on. I have a cabal of queer wedding elves on speed dial. It comes with having a famous Hollywood actress for a mom. The gays love her.”

“You do not.”

“Watch me.”

We end up at a boutique two blocks off the Strip. It’s run by a drag queen named Diamond Eyes who’s already cried twice and offered us CBD gummies. The cash I’ve slipped her is for her silence to the paps that crawl up and down the Strip. But I guess she thinks the gummies are worth it, too.

“I love a Vegas elopement,” she says, clapping her large but dainty hands. “You two are giving runaway royalty. I’m obsessed. Twirl! Again!”

She’s not wrong. We’re half-dressed in two separate curtained booths while tailors work at lightning speed to ensure we look like a million dollars when photos inevitably leak. Just because it’s Vegas doesn’t mean I’m going to look like a dumbass. I’ve got a reputation to protect. Even Daisy agrees that women must continue to crush on me after I’m married. It’s part of her attraction to me, you see.

I lean out of my booth and catch Daisy mid-laugh. Her cheeks are pink, hair pulled in place by a dozen black pins.

“You good?” I ask.

She nods. “You?”

I pretend to stretch as if I’m not overwhelmed with butterflies. “Totally. Simply wondering if I should go with the classic white and black or peacock-madly-doing-a-mating-dance.”

“Peacock that shit, babe.”

My stomach ties itself into knots. Somewhere behind the sparkle and high-speed tailoring, there’s a voice whispering this is too fast. That she deserves more. That I’m a mess in designer sunglasses pretending to know how to love someone because I’ve decided to.

So I step out of the dressing room, take out my phone, and dial the one person who might remind me what this means.

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