2. Everleigh

Chapter two

Everleigh

I don’t think anyone ever said that getting fake married would be fun. I keep thinking back to those romances I’ve read, and in the few days I had between the talk with Bradford in his office and now—Saturday night and game time—I’ve looked up a few more. And nope. Almost no one is ever excited about the wedding. Everyone feels a little bit like they’re selling their soul. But the good news? Everyone universally gets a happy ending. This means that one day, Bradford may light up at just seeing me walk into a room, and he will be my one and only love.

However, at this point, that feels more like a giant crock of shit than anything reassuring.

The church he picked is also not reassuring.

The place looks like a gothic palace. It’s as though he really is a knight, and we’ve been transported back in time via our sell-our-souls agreement. The building was dark and looming from down the street, but now that I’m pulling open one huge door that is probably legitimately medieval, it looks more like a fortress. There aren’t turrets on the building and no statues that I saw, but there are two twin spires poking into the air, a heck of a lot of stained glass, and all rich golds, heavy reds, ominous shadows, and dark woods inside the place. Very churchy if I do say so myself.

Alright, so as soon as I step inside and take a deep breath to try and get oxygen to my brain and my literal nervous ass to thaw out a little, I guess I do feel a bit better. It’s not horrible in here by any stretch of the imagination.

No, all the intimidation lies in what I’m doing here.

When Bradford told me to be at the church at eleven at night, I was astounded, but then, rich people can be strange. Or maybe he’s secretly religious or something, and this is his church, and due to lack of warning, this was the only time they could squeeze in a wedding.

Yeah fucking right. This whole thing is sketchy. I mean, seriously, eleven? At night?

I suck in a breath that smells like candle wax and wine, even though I can’t possibly smell wine. It just seems like something a church would smell like. Not like mothballs and other woods, but incense. Actually, that’s what it smells like in here. Something burning. I try not to breathe in any further. I don’t like the smell, and my stomach is already rocking out like a heavy metal band. Not only is my butt going numb from the stress, but I’m coming up with really bad similes in my head.

I take the smallest of steps, hoping to prolong the agony while wanting to get it over and done with. My mom and Heather wanted to come. They couldn’t believe I was doing this. They were moved to tears because now my sister can get the treatments we’ve been trying to figure out a way to pay for, and my mom can stop working almost twenty hours a day. Neither of them wanted it to have to come to this, though.

I told them I didn’t want them to come. And I thought I meant it, but now I wish they were here.

There isn’t anyone here. The place can probably fit six thousand people in it, but there isn’t anyone around until I walk through the entrance of the church, up a set of stairs, into the real deal part of the building, and spot an old man garbed in white robes. The priest. There’s a man dressed entirely in black and dwarfing the huge wood altar he’s standing in front of. The whole front part of the church is wood. It’s ornate and carved, and there’s stained glass and also lots of pews. It’s so fancy in here, so ancient. My heartbeat echoes in my ears. It echoes louder in here, bouncing off the stone and brick and the wood. A thunderstorm can roll through here, and it will sound for days and days and days.

My heart drops out of my chest, and my stomach bottoms out along with it when the golden head turns to me, and in the light of flickering candles and whatever else is going on in here illuminating the stained glass and all the rows of wooden pews, jade eyes meet mine.

I immediately feel like an idiot when they widen, then narrow, then darken. Bradford allows the smallest of smiles, but it’s warm and genuine. My stomach settles, and my nerves ease. He’s so gorgeous, so breathtaking, and he’s going to be mine . Maybe that happy ending is already starting because he looks pleased to see me. I’m wearing another thrift store dress, this one a white and gold gauzy number that I’ve had for years. I always felt a little bit like a Greek goddess in it. Heather braided my hair in a fancy fishtail braid and wove a strand of my mom’s old pearls through it. I’m wearing the only other piece of jewelry we haven’t sold—my grandma’s gold locket—at the hollow of my throat. It’s warm on my skin, and my heartbeats seem to vibrate against it.

This is a church—well, more like a cathedral, splendid and ornate, a place for worship—and here I am, an admitted sinner. I’m about to commit a felony. Fraud. Fake marriage. I’m about to make promises I don’t mean and take literal vows. My hands shake. My left hand already feels weighed down with the weight of lies and the thought of a ring on my finger. Does that mean Bradford will own me? Why didn’t I take more time to think this through? To talk this through?

Miraculously, my feet carry me all the way up that plush, rich red carpeting to the altar of wood and stained glass angels. There are angels looking down at me from all sides of the church. It’s a nice touch.

“You came,” Bradford says, as though he doubted I would. His voice is soft and deep, thick with relief. It makes me a little bit giddy to hear him speak. When he gives me his special, wide smile—his golden smile—that has literally sealed hundreds of deals over the years, I practically melt on the spot.

“I—yes.” What choice did I really have? You had a choice. You always have a choice. Did I? Or was my choice made for me by my father and his debts, and then by Heather’s diagnosis, just when we thought we’d dug ourselves out from under everything else?

Bradford doesn’t take my hand. He doesn’t touch me, but his smile stays in place, and his eyes are warm and kind, and I tell myself that’s enough. That it will be enough for me for these next months. I’m trusting this man with my body, my soul, and my life.

His right hand moves in a small gesture, but the priest sees it and joins us. He’s all ancient and weathered in white robes that give off a slightly musty smell, but while his voice is monotonous and I can’t hear what he’s saying because I’m a wreck inside, I don’t feel like he’s a threat. He’s not unkind. The poor man is just here to marry us, that’s all.

To him, we’re just two people in love. Bradford with his two-thousand-dollar bespoke suit and his million-dollar smile and me with my swept-up hair, my grandma’s locket, my mom’s pearls, and the twenty-two-dollar dress I used to feel so pretty in. Yeah, me…with my soul bared, my heart stopped, and my life spiraling out of control.

Bradford finally reaches out and takes my hands in his, and they’re warm and reassuring and right. I nearly die when his skin touches mine. I never dreamed that he’d touch me for real. My heart thrums madly, and now it’s not fear. It’s anticipation. This might be wrong, and I still might want to run, but I’m going to stick it out and do it because my family needs me to do it. I’m buying our survival and our freedom.

My thoughts are scrambled, but Bradford’s touch grounds me. His warmth becomes my warmth, and I imagine I can feel the echo of his heart in the pulse at his wrist, where my index finger hovers.

“Bradford Anderson, do you take Everleigh Rushdale to be your wife…”

Oh good, he already gave the priest my name.

There’s more, and then he says yes, so confidently, like this is real and we’re in love, or we’re going to be, and everything is going to be fine. It gives me the courage to say yes even though I want to say fuck this and bolt, despite the fact that we’re in a church, and swearing would probably ensure eternal damnation.

Instead, I’m standing here and saying yes when it’s my turn.

It’s over before I really register it happening. Bradford slips two rings on my finger: an engagement ring with a pear-shaped diamond that looks very antique and a second gold band with scrollwork that matches—a set.

The priest finishes up, and then I sign the paperwork. Bradford already signed, which seems weird, but then again, he’s very organized, and he was here before me, so maybe he was just killing time.

“Go in peace,” the priest wishes us. And then he leaves. He just freaking walks right out the front through some ornate door I didn’t see before. He’s gone, and it’s just us, and now we’re married. My boss is now my husband.

I turn to Bradford, my heart hammering and blood rushing in my ears. “Now what?”

“Do you have your phone?”

“I…uh…yeah.” I brought a clutch with me, and it’s still hanging off my right wrist. I wasn’t even aware of it before.

I had put my phone on silent. But there are no missed calls or texts. My mom and sister are the only ones who know I’m here, and they tried to stop me. They tried all week to talk me out of it. When they couldn’t, they accepted that this was my decision. They didn’t second guess me or try to call me on my way to the church or while I was getting married.

“Check your bank account. The money was wired five minutes ago.”

I opened my bank app and checked. I don’t look up. “By who?” Those words shake. Something isn’t right. Something is very, very wrong. And there. There it is. Fifty thousand dollars added to my balance, bringing it up to fifty thousand one hundred and four dollars. The magnitude of those numbers makes me feel sick. I wonder if hurling right here on this fancy carpet would be acceptable. No, probably not. It’s probably also an eternally damnable sin.

“If you play your cards right, you won’t ever have to work again,” Bradford says softly, but there’s something smug and sinister about that.

My head snaps up, my fingers gripping my phone too hard. Play my cards right? Oh my god. What does that even mean? Does he think that’s what I really want? His face is neutral, but I swear what he just said was meant to mock me.

All of a sudden, the door at the back of the church bangs open before swinging shut, the echo reverberating throughout the place like that thunderstorm I thought about earlier. Who else is in here at eleven at night? In here with us? My head whips back so fast that I nearly give myself whiplash. My vision blurs, and my heart races. I feel like I’m back with the lions again. Not one. But two.

The black shadow from the back slowly, slowly emerges. He walks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He saunters but with a strong, powerful gait that eats up the aisle. He passes pews, and he’s moving so fast now that they seem to be moving too—a trick. Something like being in a car that’s standing still and then seeing one move beside you and feeling like you’re moving. I edge closer to Bradford as though he could save me, protect me, and explain what this stranger, clad entirely in black with raven dark hair, black eyes, and the bone structure of the devil himself—however blasphemous that might be, given where I’m standing—is doing here. And also why he’s stopping just a few feet away from us, clenching his hands at his side, and getting that dashing tick in his jaw that only handsome men can pull off.

In the sexy church mood lighting, which probably isn’t a correct turn of phrase at all, this guy is all shadows and hard angles, but under different, warmer lighting, his hair is probably auburn or chestnut instead of black. Or it’s some other token word for brown. But that’s not important. What’s important is why he’s here and why he’s looking at me like that. Well, actually, looking at us like that. Like a great travesty just occurred here, and some wretched crime was committed. Please don’t let me be going to jail for this already. This isn’t how the fairy tale is supposed to go.

There is something off about this guy’s eyes, and it’s not just the intensity of his feral stare. His pupils are huge. Bradford’s arm slips around my waist, steadying me, and I’m grateful for it. The magnitude of this stranger’s gaze could bowl anyone over. He’s the polar opposite of Bradford’s blonde, light, and angelic looks, and yet…the angles and features, well, they’re quite…similar.

“Darling,” Bradford drawls in a bored tone, his hand clenching my waist, not protectively, no, but to keep me from running. I want to wrench it away. I want to get as far away from him as I possibly can. Foreboding crashes over me, and my blood rushes through my veins, thick and heated with adrenaline. “I’d like you to meet Bradford Anderson. Your husband.”

I know nothing about defending myself physically, but it’s second nature to slam my foot down on Bradford’s square-toed leather shoe and elbow him in the ribs. Unfortunately, I’m about as effective as a mosquito, and he swats me away and tightens his arm all at once, pulling me against him.

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re my husband!” Okay, so I’m out of control. That was pretty much a shriek, but how can I be composed when the man I just married pointed to a damn stranger, gave him his name, and called him my husband?

My stomach rolls painfully, and I think I’m going to throw up. Bile surges up my throat, and I press my lips shut just to not barf on the church floor. I’m not in the right direction to aim for Bradford, but my god, I’d like to aim for him or not at all. No barfing unless I can ruin his suit and shoes. It’s a new law.

“No, sweetheart. That’s not the agreement. I stood in by proxy for my brother, which is allowed. The paperwork was signed by both of you, and it is all legal and binding. But where are my manners? All of this without a proper introduction.” His grin is lethal. Right now, he’s not the sweetheart, golden child that everyone knows and loves. This isn’t the grin he gives when he shakes hands with business partners and colleagues.

This isn’t the Bradford I know. Is that even his name? My god, what is even happening right now? I’m speechless and frozen while he just keeps on talking, so I have no choice but to listen and process the terrible proof that I’ve just made a horrendous mistake.

“This is Bradford Darius Anderson the Second . My father was the first of the same name. And I’m Bradford Lion Anderson the Third.” Fuck, fuck fuck, that’s why they call him Lion. The Third. Oh my god, it’s not because his grandpa was the first. “Darius prefers his middle name, while I use my given name. Our other brothers are also named Bradford, and they go by their middle names. We all are named Bradford. Another family joke.” He chuckles, and he’s clearly enjoying himself, the bastard. “We seem to have a lot of those going around. My brother, my twin brother, is older than me by a mere seven minutes, but that still makes him the oldest Anderson.”

I twist so I can look up into his face. He’s still so perfect, so handsome, smiling. He’s the devil incarnate, and I didn’t see it coming. He’s so freaking proud of himself. He masterminded this wretched plan, and it all worked out for him so perfectly. He’s getting everything he wanted. Everything. And me? I’m the stupid, na?ve girl he tricked into this. He’s the smart one, and I’m nothing.

Now, I remember everything. Everything he said. A wife problem… An heir problem… Six months, one million dollars, and a whirlwind romance no one saw coming. You’ll be swept away, given everything you could ever desire. And, at the end of it, a doctor will declare that you’re not capable of having children, and that will be that. An annulment and everything will be saved. You’ll be that much richer, and everyone’s problems will be solved.

The wife problem wasn’t his . Not per se. I mean, he did have a wife and an heir problem because his brother’s problems were his problems. Bradford never said I would be marrying him . He led me to believe I would be, and because I was stupid and trusting, I believed him and showed up here like an absolute dork.

You horrible bastard. I hope karma comes for you in the form of something really hairy and ugly and nasty. “You…you bait-and-switched me?” I sound like a total nincompoop.

“Not anything so drastic as that. It’s just that my brother is a bit of a recluse and has quite the undeserved scary reputation. If I had told you I needed a favor for him, that you’d be marrying a total stranger whom you’d never met before, and he was going to spirit you away to his corner of the world for the next six months, you hardly would have agreed, and I needed you to agree.”

I’m stunned. Furious. I can’t stop the garble that comes out. “I hope you choke on the next fry you eat, and it gets stuck in your throat, and a seagull comes along and tries to give you mouth-to-mouth. You’re a bastard!”

“And you’re a smart woman.” He just keeps smirking at me because he knows I’m powerless. I can’t walk out of here now. Not with their money already in my account. Something tells me I can’t just send it back, tear up the marriage paper, and call the whole thing off now. “I know all about your father’s debts and your family’s situation. I also know about your sister’s illness. I knew how desperate you were, and that’s why I chose you. I’m so sorry to have to deceive you, but honestly, my grandmother would be proud. I did tell you how she loved a good thriller and mystery as well as any romance, didn’t I?”

“You’re a heinous ass!” I try and stomp on his foot again and miss. Then, I try for the elbow and miss, too. Next, I try to tear the rings off my finger, but they’re just a fraction too small, and I’m soaked in sweat, my skin is overheated, and they’re stuck on like fucking glue. I can’t believe I saw this bastard as a white knight and that I ever fantasized about him saving me. I also can’t believe I thought all week about this crap. About maybe getting a happy ending and being so stupidly na?ve and hopeful. “I hope your tiny little weenus rots and falls off, and the next freaking latte your new secretary gets you has spit in it!”

Bradford sighs like I’m boring him by taking up too much of his evening. “Curses? That’s no way to start a marriage off.”

Oh my god, earlier, did he say his brother was going to take me away somewhere? He did! Shit, he did say that. To his corner of the world. Where the bloody fuck would that be? “I’m not going with him! I’m not going to let this happen!”

“You married me off to a spitfire,” Bradford Darius Anderson the Second’s voice is deep and dark and as rich as he must be. But despite that, he sounds thoroughly unimpressed. Pissed off, actually. And a tad confused, maybe? Like he wasn’t fully in on this plan either.

I’m barely able to look at him because I can’t make my eyes focus. The world is spinning strangely, and acid is burning through my chest. I feel like I’m going to faint, but no, I absolutely can’t faint. I can’t pass out because then god knows what would happen to me. It’s the fear. I try to swallow it back so it can’t make me stupid. Or stupider. Stupider than I’ve already been. My legs are going to give out because I can’t feel my ass anymore. I should have trusted my instincts. Should have trusted my numb bum. Why didn’t I run when I still could?

“I’m very sorry about all this,” Bradford the Third, I mean Ass, croons, and I can tell he’s not one bit sorry. The world has no idea what a piece of shit this guy really is. I had no idea myself. But I’m going to tell everyone. Everyone is going to find out about this—about the scheming and the lying and the trickery. I’ll go straight to every magazine, newspaper, and online publication. They can have it for free. The world needs to know that this man isn’t who they think he is. He’s a predator who traps—

A strong set of hands grab me from behind, grasping my shoulders and face and maneuvering me away from Bradford, and honestly, I’m not that sorry to go, but I am terrified. I don’t even get to turn my head around again to see who has me, but it’s not Bradford Darius Anderson the Second because his black eyes are the last thing my gaze lands on before everything goes dark.