CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gavriil Four weeks later

P EOPLE MOVE ACROSS the lawn, Chanel dresses and Louis Vuitton suits sparkling under the twinkling lights strung up in the trees. The setting sun casts a rosy glow on the crowd made up of movie stars, platinum-award singers, bestselling authors, fellow billionaires and politicians. Waiters dressed in black tuxedos move through the crowd with silver trays, offering crystal flutes of champagne and some rare oyster only found in a river in France.

I tasked Juliette with creating the wedding of the century. She delivered.

Four weeks ago, I slid my ring onto her finger. She showed up at the Seaside Inn the following morning, agreed to a wedding one month later and vanished just as quickly as she’d arrived. I heard nothing else from her the rest of the day.

I got the first bill the following day. Sarabeth DeLancey, the premier wedding planner in the country, orchestrated the weddings of A-list actors, platinum-selling singers and the children of presidents. She would also be coordinating ours. Sarabeth was the first in a long line of bills that had crossed my desk in the past month.

But Juliette’s wanton spending seems to have done the trick. The engagement, and the buzz surrounding our luxurious wedding, has been positive. No one has questioned it. The enemies-to-lovers angle has made Juliette and me a regular feature on West Coast news outlets and social media. That we are turning down every interview request has only increased the hype and speculation about our wedding.

It’s been a week since I’ve seen or spoken to her, other than through text messages. She’s played her part well at the events we’ve attended together, including an engagement dinner hosted by some business associates and their spouses. Every time I’d looked over at her during the evening, she’d smiled, laughed, even laid her hand on top of mine. To anyone watching, all they’d seen was a young woman in love. Exactly what I asked of her.

I thought I had some grasp on who she was, some understanding of her character. Yet she’s spent my money as if she’d been born to wealth instead of supposedly loathing it for years. To see how easily she slips into the role of lovestruck fiancée, as well as how quickly she sheds it once we’re in the privacy of my car or plane, is unnerving. So is realizing the extent that she’s using me. As much as I am her.

Which probably makes us perfect for each other, or at least for the next year we’re trapped in this arrangement.

When we’re alone, she slips into silence and all but ignores me. The first time it happened, it struck me as petty. But as it continued, over and over every time we were alone, I started to slip back into the past, into a tiny, stuffy room and my mother staring at the wall, ignoring her child in favor of reminiscing about her lost lover.

The lover who had given her five thousand euros when she’d told him she was pregnant and then abandoned her.

The more the past overshadowed my present, the terser I got with Juliette, until we were both practically snarling at each other on the few occasions we talked. The only thing that still lingered was that damned sexual heat. Every time Juliette placed her hand on my arm, dressed in gowns that made her understated beauty shine, I wanted to hide her away, to snap at the men leering at her that she was taken.

Nights have been the hardest. I wake up with a throbbing need pounding its way through my body and phantom moans rippling in my head. I’ve kept it under control so far. Easy to do when she’s been spending her nights elsewhere.

But when she’s just next door...

I curl my fingers into a fist and let my nails bite into my palm.

Just two more weeks , I remind myself.

After tonight, we’ll fly to France for a two-week honeymoon to keep up appearances. I’ve booked us suites in Paris and on the river cruise to keep us apart as much as possible when we’re alone. When we return to the States, the spotlight on our relationship will die down and we’ll go our separate ways for the rest of our farce of a marriage.

We just have to make it through the ceremony first. Juliette’s played her part well so far, at least in public. But I won’t feel completely settled until she’s said I do and the countdown to my owning Drakos North America free and clear has officially begun.

I watch as the guests below start to drift toward the beach and the rows of ivory chairs lined up on either side of the aisle. I heard nothing but compliments as guests were welcomed into the foyer of my mansion and escorted into the backyard for preceremony cocktails. There’ve been no whispers about the will, no speculation about this being an arrangement. The only ugly stories I’ve seen are the ones theorizing that Juliette is marrying me for my money.

Which, I remind myself grimly, she is. My money and a house.

Unfair for me to feel angry about that. I made the offer of the house. But her asking for money took the image I had of her as a feisty but independent reporter and dismantled it until all I was left of was a woman who, sadly, was just like everyone else.

I had one moment on the flight home from Rêve Beach when I wondered if I was judging too harshly. My mother’s absence, both in life and death, had left a gaping hole. As a child, I had hoped the hole might be filled with family, namely my father and brother. When both of those failed, the hole widened until I felt like an empty shell.

A shell that only started to feel complete when I made my first million. When I experienced satisfaction at realizing what I had accomplished on my own. Pride at finally being recognized for what I had achieved. I didn’t need love or family. In my experience, those things were fleeting, unreliable.

Juliette had experienced the same loss, the same struggles over the years. She had reached out and grabbed an opportunity with both hands, just as I had.

Yet as I watched her go through the same motions, it seemed...hollow.

Then the bills for the wedding started to roll in. The overblown spending turned my discomfort to antipathy. Yes, I told her to spend. I have the money. I indulge.

But even this is excessive for me.

I glance at the arch at the end of the orchid-lined aisle, draped in gauzy white fabric and wrapped with the same lights strung up in the trees. The only bill that didn’t cross my desk was for her wedding dress. A designer probably donated a gown for the chance to be seen at what one news outlet dubbed the most anticipated wedding of the decade.

I move away from the window and walk to the mirror on the far side of my room. The tuxedo, a dark navy with a black satin collar and matching bow tie, are hand-stitched and fit perfectly. Everything is going according to plan.

So why , I wonder as I stalk back over to the window and shove my hands into my pockets, am I still unsatisfied?

The door opens behind me.

“Guests are being directed to their seats.”

Rafael joins me at the window in a matching tux with a slim tie. My eyes are drawn to a bear of a man stuffed into a suit moving along the edges of the crowd. Anger stirs, but I squelch it. I’m not wasting emotions on him.

“Michail came.”

Rafe leans forward and watches him. “I thought he declined.”

“He did.”

I watch as he approaches Alessandra. The smile disappears from her face when she sees him. Those two have a history. I’m not sure what it involves, although I can make plenty of guesses as I watch her say something that turns his frown into a glower before she whirls around in a swirl of emerald silk and stalks off.

“I’m surprised you invited him.”

I shrug. I don’t like him. I don’t like what he represents. I despise that our father cared more about telling me about the son he barely knew instead of trying to mend the fractures between us.

But the world now knew about Michail Sullivan Drakos, private security millionaire in his own right and secret son of Lucifer Drakos, thanks to a belated press release arranged by Lucifer before he died. The old bastard just had to have the last word. Leaving Michail off the guest list would have looked petty at best and undermined my image.

A mercenary approach. But I don’t make decisions based on emotions.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Rafe asks quietly.

I smirk. “If you really wanted an answer to that, you would have asked it four weeks ago when I asked you to be my best man.”

Silence reigns between us.

“I don’t always know what to say.”

I glance at Rafael in surprise. My brother is a block of ice. I’ve never once heard him admit to anything that could resemble a weakness.

“You always know what to say.”

“For business, yes.” He leans forward, his eyes sweeping across the lawn. “When it comes to personal matters, I’m more of a failure than our father.”

I frown. “Are you drunk?”

He laughs, the sound rusty as if he hasn’t used his voice for that function in a very long time.

“Sadly, no. Merely reflective.”

He looks at me then with that sharp gaze I know so well. Except right now it’s tinged with a brotherly concern I’ve never experienced. It cuts me, unexpected and sharp. When I found out I had a brother, a stubborn flame of hope had flickered to life. Despite my mother choosing heartache over life, and my father dismissing me as if I were nothing more than a bug he’d stepped on, the concept of a sibling—a brother —had made me hope one last time.

A hope that died the moment Rafe had walked in on a break from university, said hello as if he was greeting a stranger on the street, and then continued on to his private rooms on the second floor where he stayed until he went back to London a week later.

He was never cruel or rude. His indifference was almost worse.

But I grew up. I shoved all of those hopes and desires for something more, for a family, out of my mind as I hardened my heart.

That a single glance and a few words can shake my resolve makes me feel...weak. Weak and angry that he would choose now, after all these years, to try and be a brother.

“I have concerns about how quickly you rushed into this. And who you’re rushing into it with.”

“That’s the beauty of this arrangement, Rafe.” I slap him on the back. “She’s agreed to cease any investigations into our company. After we’re divorced, even if she does try to write anything, it will look like pettiness from an ex-wife.”

“But we don’t have anything for her to write about.” That look of concern intensifies. It’s almost unnatural on a face that’s usually as smooth as stone. “We never have, and never will, be like him.”

The way he says it with such conviction digs deeper into my heart. I pause, waiting a second for my emotions to settle before I speak. It’s nice to hear, sure.

But it’s too late. I’m not opening my heart to anyone again.

“Doesn’t mean she won’t try to drum up something to get back at Lucifer.”

Rafe’s brows draw together. “I’ve wondered why she focused on him so hard. I should look into her background.”

I nearly tell him then, about Grey House and her father. At the last second, I bite it back. No matter what I think of her, it’s not my story to tell. That’s what I tell myself as I ignore the protective instinct that rises.

I glance back out the window, then smile as I see a familiar blond-haired woman moving through the crowd, shoulders thrown back with confidence as she navigates with the use of her forearm crutches.

“Tessa’s here.”

I can practically hear Rafe’s neck snap as his head whips around and he moves to the window. Interesting. I think this is the most emotion I’ve ever seen him display. His eyes zero in on the petite figure dressed in blue. His wife.

“You invited her?”

“She’s family.”

There. An almost imperceptible flinch before he regains control.

“Yes. Of course.”

He doesn’t offer up anything else so I steer the conversation back to my own nuptials.

“Don’t worry about Juliette. She’s signed the contract.” The majority of guests have moved to the beach and are taking their seats. The sun is just about to graze the horizon. In a matter of minutes, I’ll be a married man. “Drakos Development is safe.”

I can feel Rafe’s gaze on me, but I don’t look. I’ve had enough surprises for one evening.

“Business isn’t everything, adelfós . I hope you learn that before you lose something important.”

“I have something important.” I look at him then and arch a brow. “My share of the company. I would do anything for it. Including marrying to ensure its legacy.” I make a show of glancing down at my watch. “Speaking of, it’s time. Shall we?”

I don’t bother waiting for an answer. I stride toward the door. A moment later, I hear his footsteps behind me.

As we walk downstairs, Sarabeth materializes at the bottom. With her black hair pulled into an elegant twist on top of her head and a violet-colored sheath dress, she could pass for a guest if she wasn’t sporting a headset and a tablet.

“Mr. Drakos, please proceed to the ceremony site. We’ll begin the processional in ninety seconds.”

I salute her as I pass. The woman would have made a phenomenal drill sergeant.

The quartet reserved for the cocktail hour and ceremony are playing a lighthearted tune as Rafe and I walk down the elevated aisle. I nod to guests and smile, aware of the photographer catching my every move. The photos, and our only interview, have already been sold to a national magazine. An additional investment in making sure the right story is told about our relationship while reaping extra publicity for Drakos North America.

Rafe and I stop before the arch and face the crowd. A flower girl in a blush-colored dress prances down the aisle, scattering scarlet rose petals with an abandon that makes me grin. Catherine, the mother of the little girl and a good friend of Juliette’s, follows in a bridesmaid gown the same shade of seductive red that makes her dark brown skin glow. She smiles for the cameras, but I don’t miss the sharp glance she serves me as she takes her place on the opposite side of the arch. I only met her for the first time last night at the rehearsal, and Catherine has suspicions.

Smart woman. Fortunately, in the one conversation I had with Catherine, it doesn’t appear Juliette has broken her promise. Yet. But Catherine, who has known Juliette for years and has some connection to Juliette’s family, isn’t buying the whole suddenly-in-love angle. As long as Juliette adheres to the contract, Catherine can cast me all the suspicious looks she wants.

A moment later, the traditional wedding march begins to play as the officiant gestures for everyone to stand.

And then I see her.

The world fades away. My vision becomes a tunnel, my focus solely on the stunning woman at the opposite end of the aisle. Long sleeves made of lace offer tantalizing glimpses of her skin. The low cut of the bodice leaves her shoulders bare and follows the lines of her waist before cascading into a full skirt that makes it seem like she’s gliding down the aisle towards me.

The subtle, sexy touches blend with elegance and her natural beauty. Gone is the severe bun or the efficient braid. Her hair flows, dark and wavy, down her back, just like it did that day on the bluff. A veil trimmed in the same lace as her sleeves flutters behind her like butterfly wings. Blush highlights her cheekbones. Her lips, painted a vivid red, are tilted up into the barest of smiles as she nods to some of the guests.

I blink in surprise when I see the woman by her side, moving down the aisle in her wheelchair with one hand on the control and the other wrapped tightly around Juliette’s. She’d mentioned someone special was walking her down the aisle but that they had been indisposed for last night’s rehearsal.

The woman looks at me, and recognition slams into me. Desdemona Harris. Simon’s ex-girlfriend. Silver streaks through her blond hair. The slight wrinkles by her eyes make her appear kind. Her gaze, chocolate brown, is warm but nervous, as if she’s not sure what to make of all this. She turns her gaze to Juliette, who looks down at her and smiles with such reassuring warmth it makes me lose my breath.

The tension in their grip pulls me back from my fantasy. Juliette looks back up. Our eyes meet and I see nerves, apprehension.

Beautiful.

I nearly mouth the word to her, to ease the tension in her gaze and build a bridge between us.

But then she shifts, her chin rising as her eyes harden and she stares at me with something akin to disgust even as she smiles so sweetly it makes me want to growl. In that moment I regret the horde watching our every move, the cameras clicking away. I want it to just be the two of us so we can finally rip the gloves off and shout at each other. Something raw and honest, not this brittle chasm that widens with every encounter.

An alarm sounds deep within my mind. I freeze. I can’t remember the last time I wanted something messy, craved reality instead of the precise existence I’d crafted for myself. The woman walking toward me, the one I’m about to pledge my life to for the next twelve months, has made me want...more.

I don’t want more. I want what I’ve forged for myself, with no one but me at the helm.

I slip back into the familiarity of my role and shoot Juliette a confident smile as I rake my eyes up and down her body. A different heat is kindled as my gaze lingers on the swells of her breasts above the bodice of her dress, the flare of her hips beneath the gown. A heat made all the more pleasing by the warning look she shoots me as she draws near.

My smile grows. We agreed on no sex. But no one said anything about not looking.

Juliette passes her bouquet to Desdemona and then joins me in front of the officiant. My chest tightens as I wrap her hands in mine, my thumb brushing against her ring. She blinks rapidly as I trace a lazy circle on her skin before tensing in my grasp as I gently press down. I try, and fail, to hide my slight smile as her mask slips and I see the raw need in her eyes.

“Repeat after me, Gavriil.”

I repeat the vows spoken by the officiant. No one else seems to notice the slightest hesitation before she repeats her own.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I smile at her as my hands settle at her waist and pull her close. My fingertips brush bare skin. Blood surges as my body hardens at the realization that her back is naked.

I lower my head and seal my lips to hers.

Too much. The thought flashes in my mind, then disappears, smothered by the craving ripping through my body. It’s too much for a first kiss. The first kiss between man and wife. The first kiss ever between two people.

But it’s happening. It’s happening and, The ó s , I can’t stop.

Her taste fills me. Fire licks up my hands, my arms, then flashes down my spine as I press my lips more firmly against hers, tease the seam of her lips with my tongue. Not just to tease, no, but to claim. Even if this is a charade of a marriage, I want everyone to know this woman is mine .

I should let go, should be done with it, need to stay in control—

Her lips part. I feel her inhale right before she kisses me back, our parted lips deepening the intimacy between us for a mere second before she suddenly pulls back. I stare at her, my gaze fixed on her face. Her eyes are dark, her breathing heavy. She felt it just as much as I did. That pulsing need, more than desire or mere lust.

What have I done?

Over the roaring of blood in my ears, I hear the cheering of the crowd, the whoops and congratulations.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the officiant proudly declares.

I recover first and tug her around to face the guests. Their smiles blend together as my mind tries to process what just happened.

I married Juliette Grey. I married her and then I kissed her and now my world feels like it’s been tilted off its axis.

I inhale once, exhale slowly. Then I slip an arm around her waist and pull her against my side. She stiffens but doesn’t turn away. A quick glance out of the corner of my eye confirms that she’s at least trying to smile. But the stretching of her lips looks more like the grimace of someone about to face a firing squad.

I lean down, my lips brushing her ear and sending a shiver through her.

“Smile, Mrs. Drakos.”