Page 27 of Marry Lies
His words suck the oxygen out of my lungs. “My father trusts him,” I retort, standing up straight. “So I do, too.”
Miles tilts his head. “I’ll give you two million.”
I scoff. “You’re ruthlessly Machiavellian. It’s a little terrifying.”
He smiles at this, and I think it’s the first time I’ve seen a real smile grace his features. It catches me off guard, and I’m momentarily stunned.
“I’m adding another ground rule,” he says, staring down at me once the smile leaves his face. “From this moment until we separate, you will use my money as if it is yours.”
“No, I don’t need—”
“Estelle.”
His voice is low. Commanding. My eyes dip to the jagged lines on his neck, and I’m tempted to pull his shirt down so I can see just how far those scars run.
“You need money to survive. You need money for living expenses. So unless you expect it to magically appear at the bottom of a fountain, you will take my money and you will utilize it. I’ll have Luna add you to my accounts and get you a copy of my credit card. You can also expect reimbursement for all of this imminently. If you don’t want to take the two million I just offered you, that’s fine. I will arrange for you to receive my father’s money.”
I open my mouth to protest, and he places a hand over my lips. His skin is salty, and I want to lick him.
What. Is. Wrong. With. Me.
“If you don’t comply, Iwillmake sure your year here is as unbearable as humanly possible.”
I swallow as my eyes search his. He removes his hand, and I lick my lips as my cheeks flush.
“Blackmail? I didn’t think you’d stoop so low, Miles,” I murmur, narrowing my eyes.
He takes a step back, shrugging. “I am my father’s son, after all.”
With that, he turns and walks out of the bathroom. I take a few steadying breaths, replaying his words over and over in my mind.
I am my father’s son, after all.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
CHAPTERFIVE
THE PROPOSAL
Miles
I groan when I wake up sweating, shoving the duvet off as I climb out of bed. Whatever fabric this orange monstrosity is made of kept me up most of the night in a hot, itchy mess. I quickly climb out and exit my bedroom, glancing into Estelle’s empty bedroom on my way to the kitchen.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” I grumble, my eyes skirting over the matching duvet cover in her room.
The rational part of me is telling me to just get rid of both heinous duvets, but fuck, she seemed so happy yesterday amongst her Crayola-themed decorations. And…comfortable.Lounging on that eyesore of a couch. Looking content. Smiling as she clutched one of those god-awful pillows to her chest as she listened to something on her phone. She’d been wearing an oversized T-shirt and tight bicycle shorts that highlighted her toned legs, and I had to actively keep my eyes on her face.
The duvet cover will stay, as will the couch.
For her,I think reluctantly.
Besides—and it makes me feel like a horrible person to think this—I still need her.
I still need her to go through with this fake marriage.
Throwing out her brand new matching duvet set might not be the best way to go about that.
I quickly shower and change into a dark grey, two-piece Prada suit, glancing at myself in the mirror as I change. My eyes automatically fall to the misshapen skin around my neck and chest. I’ve reluctantly memorized the pattern of it. My eyes fall closed briefly as I think back to when I was eighteen.
