Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Rose

“She fucking fired him, Jess.”

I’ve been jogging through Central Park, trying to clear my head, and it isn’t working. There are too many people. It’s been a while since I last jogged, and my head is already pounding, and I can feel a blister stinging the back of my right heel. So, I’ve done the next best thing, slowed to a steady stroll and called Jess.

“ She fired your dad? Ruby Weiss? Are you sure it wasn’t down to him, Rose?”

I suck in a deep breath and try to fill my lungs, but the more I think about it, the angrier I’m getting. My dad’s face when he came home in the middle of the day broke my heart. He looked so … defeated. Broken.

“She offered him a payout and put him on paid leave indefinitely, told him to pack up his stuff and leave the building. Immediately.” Tears start streaming down my face, and I sniff loudly, choking on a sob.

“Okay, you’re either out jogging, or there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There is … something…”

“Right, Rose, where are you?”

“C-Central Park.”

“Find a bench, sit down, blow your nose, and spill the beans.”

Jess’s voice is so calm, so level-headed, that I follow her instructions like a kid listening to a teacher.

“Better?”

“A bit.”

I’ve been shaking ever since Brandon left my house earlier, and Dad told me he’d been fired. I got Brandon’s number from Julia and messaged him while my brain cells were misty-red and scrambled, and now stark realization is creeping in…

“I’ve done something stupid,” I whisper into the phone.

“You want to talk about it?”

I nod even though Jess can’t see me. “I’ve agreed to marry Brandon Weiss.”

“Whoa.”

Pause.

I can almost hear Jess’s thoughts chugging around and trying to unpack what I just said. “Let’s backtrack a little here, Rose. Because it sounded like you just told me you’re going to marry the billionaire asshole who fired your dad.”

I sigh and then snort on the intake—not my finest look.

“I did. It’s not real. He came to my house earlier with a proposition. He’ll buy me a diamond ring—which I get to keep—if I pretend to be his fiancée.”

Silence.

“He said he’d transfer a million dollars into my dad’s bank account.”

Silence.

“Say something, Jess.”

I hear her clearing her throat. She’s stalling.

“Let me get this straight. You get a diamond ring, your dad gets a million bucks, and you have this fake engagement thing going on for … how long? What happens then? Do you have a fake tiff and call off the fake wedding? Or do you see it through and move into Mr. Billionaire’s penthouse suite for a while?”

We’re both silent now. People stroll past me, but I don’t even see them. I didn’t even think of these questions when I agreed to the fake engagement, but I’ll need to create a list and get Brandon to sign a contract or something. And I know Jess is still brewing more.

“Why?” she asks now.

“He’s trying to save his reputation.”

“At your expense.” The shock is wearing off, and practical Jess is back. “What’s wrong with his reputation, or don’t I want to know?”

Deep breath. “Someone sold pictures of him to the tabloids.”

“Pictures? Of the pornographic variety? I mean, no one’s interested in seeing him with his clothes on, are they?”

“Jess!” I squeal, but already I feel lighter, like the rain clouds have moved on and settled above someone else’s head.

After Brandon left, I searched for the images on the Internet—they weren’t hard to find. I tried looking at them objectively and without sympathy. He knew what he was doing when he screwed that woman all over her apartment, but I couldn’t stop the anger from crawling into my veins anyway.

I wasn’t even angry at Brandon, at least until my dad came home with his uneaten packed lunch and his framed photograph of Mum in his backpack. I was angry at the world, at the kind of people who seek their pleasure from destroying the lives of others more fortunate than themselves. I was angry at today’s culture of technology and cyber-bullying for making this even possible.

Maybe I did feel a pang of sympathy for him when I agreed to his proposition because I was thinking about the man on the beach with the head wound and the soon-to-materialize hangover from hell. He needed me then, and he needs me now.

“Rose, are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry, I was miles away.”

“Oh, I can imagine. I’m looking at the pictures right now.”

“You are?” Course she is. Did I honestly think that Jess wouldn’t want to see them for herself?

“I asked why you? Of all the women he must know—the one in these images excluded—why did he ask you to marry him? I mean…” Her voice trailed off.

“I’m not in the same league as him?”

“That’s not what I was trying to say, and you know it. I simply meant that you don’t move in the same circles. You never attended a deb ball or dressed up for a red-carpet event. You don’t know these people.”

I swallow as fresh tears spill over my lashes.

“What are you not telling me, Rose? What happened on Ruby Island?”

“I-I might’ve done something else stupid too.”

“Oh my god, you slept with him, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I breathe into the phone.

“I knew it!” There’s no accusation in her tone. If anything, she sounds excited, eager for the details. “That’s why you came home early, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Kind of. It’s a long story.”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

“What should I do, Jess?”

“Go get your diamond ring, girl. You can always sell it once this is all over.”

“So, you think I should play along with the fake relationship thing for the money?” It isn’t the kind of advice I’ve come to expect from my best friend.

“Sure, why not? You’ve already done the deed, so how hard can it be? Don’t answer that. I think I’ve already seen the evidence.”

We both dissolve into slightly hysterical giggles as a message alert pops up on my screen. It’s from Brandon, and it says simply: Thank you .

The following days blur into one.

The flight to Vegas is booked for the following week. First class. We’re not taking the private jet because Brandon wants people to see us together.

I meet him in a boutique café on the Upper East Side that’s straight out of Gossip Girl . A woman with cropped mauve hair, her neck and earlobes dripping with diamonds is seated at a table talking to someone who looks remarkably like Julia Roberts when I arrive and join Brandon at a table-for-two in a quiet booth.

He orders two espressos and waits for the server to leave. “Have you told anyone about us?”

“Us?” I chew my bottom lip.

On the way here, I promised myself that I would treat this— relationship —as a business agreement, which is no doubt how Brandon Weiss views it. Keep it professional. Set the terms and conditions and leave no room for ambiguity. But being this close to him is already stirring up memories of him inside me on Swimming Beach.

“Sorry, I mean this relationship.” His face is pale beneath the tan he caught on the Keys. His eyes are bloodshot, and he flinches when someone drops a spoon on the floor behind the counter.

“I haven’t told my dad if that’s what you mean.”

“Rose, I had no idea my mother fired him. I’m sorry.”

I stare at the window and blink away those goddamned tears. I almost believe him too, and this is going to be a problem if I can’t separate my fake fiancé from the Brandon I remember from Ruby Island.

“It’s fine,” I manage as our espressos arrive with complimentary dark chocolates.

He nods, once, like any other movement requires too much effort. “We’re going to the theater tonight. I’ll take you shopping for something to wear,” he says when I open my mouth to tell him that it’s too short notice. “You’ll be meeting some acquaintances of mine over the next few days too.”

I sip my coffee and wince when it scalds my tongue. “What if they start asking questions?”

“Your parents are friends of the family. We knew each other when we were younger and were reunited at my father’s birthday celebrations. We fell in love, and I proposed.”

“When you know, you know,” I murmur the old cliché.

He takes a deep breath. “Rose, I?—”

“Forget it,” I cut him off. “What happened on the beach… It was stupid. I should never have taken advantage of you, and I’m the one who should apologize.”

“Taken advantage of me?” I can’t read his tone, or his expression, and I keep my eyes on my coffee.

“Let’s just get this over and done with.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

I forget all about terms and conditions when we step inside Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue, and Brandon asks to look at engagement rings. The assistant is polished, groomed to within an inch of her life, and I wish I’d painted my nails before I came out.

“What do you have in mind?” she asks. Her hair is fastened at the nape of her neck with a diamante-encrusted clip. Her jewelry is understated but expensive.

And I don’t know what to say because the ring was never the important part of my dreams. It’s the person standing next to me that’s important.

“I-I’m not sure.” I study the diamonds inside the glass cabinets, my eyes widening.

“It’s okay.” The assistant glances at Brandon and back at me. “It can be a little overwhelming trying to choose the perfect diamond. After all, it’s a symbol of forever.”

I swallow as she unlocks the cabinet in front of her and removes a huge diamond set in a simple platinum band.

“This is the classic brilliant cut,” she says. “Try it on. Hold it to the light. Get a feel for the shape and weight of it on your finger.” She turns discreetly away as I slide it onto my ring finger.

It’s the largest diamond I’ve ever seen outside of the movies. Heavy too. I try to picture wearing this when I go to the grocery store or jump in the shower, and the enormity of what we’re doing hits me like a blow to the stomach.

“Breathe.” Brandon’s eyes are filled with concern. He turns to the assistant and asks her to fetch a glass of water while he leads me to a velvet-cushioned seat. “It’s okay,” he says, kneeling in front of me.

I try to speak but no words come out, and I realize my hand is still frozen in front of my face.

“Rose,” his voice is urgent. “It’s only a ring. Choose whichever one you like. I want you to… I want you to be happy.”

That’s the problem though. It isn’t only a ring and wearing it like this isn’t going to make me happy.

I choose a pear-shaped solitaire diamond on a platinum band. Brandon doesn’t let me see the price tag. The assistant positions the ring inside a neat velvet-lined box and hands it over to him after he pays for it with his Amex card.

I don’t question it. There’s a lump in my throat the size of an apple core— or a Tiffany diamond —and I follow Brandon out of the store, his hand gently guiding my back, and into the Prada store. His warm touch leaves an imprint at the base of my spine that I’m certain must be visible to anyone behind me.

He speaks to an assistant who comes over and inspects me head-to-toe as if she’d like to strip me naked and burn what I’m wearing on the spot. I follow her to a dressing room and try on the kind of Blake-Lively-worthy clothes that I’ve only ever seen in magazines and on social media. They feel exactly how they look: expensive.

Brandon steps into his Richard Gere role with apparent ease, smiling when I give him a twirl in an outfit that he likes, and scrunching up his nose when he disapproves. He pays for our purchases— his purchases—and provides an address for them to be forwarded to. The same happens in Club Monaco and Salvatore Ferragamo.

It’s surreal.

I always thought that I would never be the woman who allowed a man to choose her clothes, but Brandon has taste, and my head is still buzzing with the niggling notion that we still haven’t signed a contract, and none of this stuff belongs to me. But when his fingers entwine around mine, I don’t resist. How could I?

We ride a limousine back to Brandon’s apartment. A limousine!

He tosses his keys into a priceless antique bowl—at least it looks priceless—and tells me to make myself at home. My head is still back in the café, and I stand in the middle of the lobby trying to take in the panoramic view through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Rose?” He unfastens his tie and switches on the coffee machine on the counter of the open-plan kitchen. “Is your dad expecting you to come home?”

“Ye-es?”

“I think you should stay here. The guest room is made up.”

Just like that, the tears are back. I don’t know if it’s because what happened on the beach meant nothing to him, or because reality is finally penetrating the golden fuzz of an afternoon spent shopping on his credit card.

“The car is picking us up at seven.”

“What are we going to see?”

“ Moulin Rouge . I’ve heard that it’s … colorful.”

I don’t tell him that it’s my favorite movie. We haven’t reached the swapping personal stuff stage yet—we’re only engaged to be married.

I tell my dad that Jess and I are staying in a log cabin for a few days. I need to get away, clear my head, get my ass back into job-hunting mode after Ruby Island. I know he’ll be lonely, but he tells me to have fun anyway.

Moulin Rouge is ‘ spectacular, spectacular ’ as the song lyrics go. I don’t move through the entire show, mesmerized by the colors and the songs and the set. And the feel of Brandon’s shoulder brushing mine, the scent of his cologne, the way his suit jacket hisses softly whenever he moves.

We stop off at a champagne bar after, and make small talk about it—well, I make small talk, and Brandon listens with an almost-smile tugging his lips upwards at the corners. When I’m finished, he leans closer, cups my face in one hand, and kisses me on the lips. And I kiss him back.

My willpower has been blown away by the Brandon Weiss I’m spending time with now. Maybe that’s his aim, but I simply refuse to believe that he’s that good an actor.

Dinner the following evening is classy, small-but-perfectly-presented portions served on aesthetically pleasing dishes. I’m totally out of my depth, but Brandon skillfully steers the conversation towards topics that I can participate in. He’s charming, attentive, the perfect boyfriend. His fingers toy with mine across the table, and my chest swells when I notice our dinner companions’ smiles.

Until we get back to his apartment, where he drinks brandy poured from a crystal decanter and slumps on an armchair overlooking the New York skyline.

We still haven’t set any terms for our arrangement. It makes me feel uneasy, but Brandon is so unapproachable, his shoulders so stiff and tense, that I wimp out of raising the subject.

Before I know it, we’re boarding the flight to Vegas, being greeted by a stewardess with a wide smile and plumped-up lips, and settling into the first-class cabin where the seats are more comfortable than the couches in my dad’s living room.

We sip champagne from crystal flutes. Eat food with real cutlery. And I listen to the couple sitting somewhere behind us discussing the palazzo in Venice they’ve rented for the summer overlooking the Grand Canal. These people speak about money like candy. They ooze money from their well-groomed pores, and they probably don’t even realize that their accents are affected by dollar signs too.

“Are you okay?” Brandon asks when the plane is in the air.

The way he looks at me, I could almost forget that I don’t belong here, that when this is over, I’ll go back to my dad’s house and my regular life, and I won’t belong there either. I don’t know why I agreed to this whole fake-engagement thing. It was a mistake. A huge mistake. And I wish I could stop the plane and get off.

“Rose?” He must see the panic in my eyes. “You haven’t… You don’t want to pull out, do you?”

I slump back in my seat, stare out of the window at the puffy clouds, and force myself to take deep, steady breaths. When I’m ready, I turn back to face him. “We didn’t discuss what happens next. When this is over.”

He smiles at me like he’s humoring me for bringing this up when we’re already en route to Vegas. “Do you dislike me that much that you want to end it before it has even begun?”

The question takes me by surprise, but the irony isn’t lost on me. “I don’t dislike you, Brandon.” I keep my voice low. “I’m just not sure that I can do this.”

“But you’re doing brilliantly, Rose. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe that you mean it.”

“Mean what?” My stomach twists.

“That you’re in love with me. That you’ll say yes when I present you with this.” He pulls the Tiffany box out of his pocket, opens it, and turns it around to show me the pear-shaped diamond ring.

I stare at the ring, and then at Brandon. “Are you not going down on one knee?”

He grins at me. Before I can remind him that I was joking, he is on one knee, and the stewardess is standing behind him, both hands clamped over her mouth, and he’s asking me to marry him.

I hear squeals from the palazzo-couple. Gasps from the other first-class travelers.

Brandon is still watching me, every inch the doting boyfriend proposing to the love of his life.

“Yes,” I blurt out before bursting into tears.

Brandon kisses the corners of my lips, my tears, my eyelids. He kisses me on the mouth, and it is every girl’s dream proposal, a beautiful ring, a man who adores her so much that he wants the whole world to know.

And I close my eyes and go along with it, telling myself that everyone deserves a ‘happy ever after’.