Chapter 4

“Smile,”the photographer called a second before a flash blinded me.

Blinking away white spots, I let my lips flatten and watched the photographer change lenses and positions for another shot.

After the ceremony, I’d been surprised when a man with a camera slung around his neck entered the room. I wasn’t under the illusion that this marriage was anything but a business exchange, so the fact that my new husband had arranged to have the wedding memorialized in digital form was surprising.

Warwick’s hand was warm on the small of my back. He’d patiently let the photographer pose us for the last fifteen minutes, but his jaw had grown increasingly tight as each second ticked by.

“All right.” The photographer smiled brightly. “Why don’t we?—”

“That’s enough,” Warwick announced, ending the photo shoot with a clipped tone.

I silently breathed a sigh of relief, exhausted from pretending to look happy for pictures I wasn’t even sure I’d want.

“Send the shots to my publicist,” Warwick added, dropping the arm around me and taking a step away as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “She’ll select the correct one for the announcement.”

Of course. This wasn’t about me. It was about New York’s most eligible bachelor telling society he’d gotten married.

“Of course, Mr. Forrester.” The photographer didn’t seem ruffled at all by my husband’s coolness as he packed his few supplies into a simple black bag. After he’d zipped it closed, he gave me a smile. “Congratulations.”

I gave a small nod, but Warwick didn’t comment. He was too busy typing out a message on his phone. He didn’t look up as the photographer left, or even when his friend and Mr. Devane stepped forward.

His friend pointedly cleared his throat. “Wick.”

My husband’s finger hovered over a button for a beat before he pressed it and pocketed his phone again. He glanced at me with a neutral expression that gave me zero insight into how he was feeling or dealing with what had just happened.

“I’m Andrew,” his friend finally said, extending a hand. “Andrew Jackson.”

“Like the President?” I asked, tilting my head as I shook his hand.

He rolled his eyes, probably having heard that question his whole life. “Yeah, my parents didn’t really think the name through.”

“Or they had a lot of expectations for your career path,” I chimed in, Andrew’s easy smile relaxing some of the tension in my shoulders.

Warwick scoffed, and Andrew chuckled. “I have to admit, I probably ruined all those dreams then.”

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but my husband cut me off. “Thanks for coming, Drew. I’ll see you in a few days.”

Andrew shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants and rocked back on his heels. “Sounds good, man. I’ll be around if you need anything.” He winked at me. “Pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Forrester.” He spun on his heel, striding from the room.

Mr. Devane stepped in front of me, taking my hands. “I’ll be in touch about the next steps, Sia.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, leaning into the urge to hug the older man. When I withdrew from his quick embrace, I spotted Warwick frowning.

Mr. Devane turned to my husband and held out a hand. “Take care of her. She’s a special girl.”

After a heavy pause, Warwick clasped his hand and shook it. “I will.”

Watching Mr. Devane leave, my nerves tripled until I had to lace my fingers together to keep them from shaking.

Warwick turned to me with an impassive look. “Are you hungry?”

I shook my head, knowing that anything I ate would likely make a reappearance this evening. My stomach was too knotted up to digest anything.

His lips pressed together. “If you change your mind, you’ll tell me. I’ll order room service.”

“Okay,” I agreed, not sure if I liked his tone. It was all business and impassive.

His dark eyes skated down the length of me once more. “Come, wife.” He held out a hand, palm up.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped my hand inside his much larger one. It was rougher than I expected, like he worked outdoors instead of in a boardroom. The texture was surprising as he gently pulled me from the restaurant and toward the elevator bank.

He swiped a keycard over the control panel before hitting the button for the floor beneath us. When the doors slid open a moment later, we stepped out into a large entryway, the plush cream carpet leading to two doors.

Warwick pulled his hand from mine, only to put it against the small of my back, urging me toward the door on the right. When we were close enough, he used the same keycard to unlock the room. He pushed the door open, holding it for me to walk through.

I hesitated, and his brow lifted. “Would you prefer I carry you over the threshold? I thought I’d save that particular tradition for our actual home, but?—”

“No,” I cut him off, scurrying through the door. Automatic lights flickered on, illuminating a large sitting room done in shades of cream, gold, and cherry wood. A large crystal chandelier hung overhead, casting tiny little rainbows across the walls.

Directly in front of me was a wall of glass that showed the sparkling city below. Entranced, I wove through the living space until I was directly in front of the windows.

I’d always loved views of the city from up high, especially at night. It gave the place I called home an almost magic feel that movies always tried to capture.

The sound of the door closing had me spinning and remembering my freaking husband.

Warwick tossed the keycard, his phone, and wallet on the small table near the front door before shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over the back of a wingback armchair. He loosened the buttons on his crisp white dress shirt, rolling them up his forearms.

“Bathroom is connected to the bedroom,” he said, not looking at me as he inclined his head toward the double doors on my left. They’d been left open to reveal a ginormous four poster bed with matching nightstands.

“Right.” I started to take a step to the bedroom, but paused. The skirt of my gown swished around my legs as I examined the man I’d just pledged the rest of my life to.

The man who had ruined my family and left me with no choice but to be bought like a dairy cow at the state fair.

A shot of fury overrode the constant state of anxiety I’d devolved into. I took a breath, finding my voice. “Are we going to talk about any of this?”

“This?” he echoed, lifting his dark eyes to me.

I huffed a breath. “We got married, and we just met.”

“Wrong.”

I startled. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve met before,” he clarified. “It was several years ago, but today was not the first day you saw me, Alessia.”

The way his lips formed around my name had a shiver rolling down my spine. “When?”

His jaw tensed, and I got the vague notion he was irritated I didn’t remember him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” I spluttered as I wracked my brain, trying to figure out when I might’ve met him. “Is that why you picked me?”

His brows drew down. “You think I would select my wife based on a six second meeting at a random Christmas party three years ago? That seems monumentally reckless.” He shook his head with a bemused smirk. “You met the criteria I needed in a wife, Alessia.”

I gaped at him, the pieces of the puzzle slotting into place. I remembered that Christmas. It was the first one without Nonna. Papa had decided to still host her annual Christmas gala, but it had been a disaster.

I’d spent most of the evening in tears, seeing all the ways Nonna was gone while Papa steadily started drinking bourbon. It was one of three times in my entire life I’d seen him drink to the point of being drunk. And when he’d started crying for Nonna in front of a room full of employees, friends, and investors, I’d taken him upstairs before coming down to end the party.

I’d held it together until the last guest left, and then I’d crumbled in the middle of the foyer and sobbed my eyes out, fat, mascara-laden tears splattering against my silver gown.

In the midst of my breakdown, someone had come up behind me and pressed a handkerchief into my fingers. I’d blindly accepted it with a mumbled, if not horrified, thanks. But by the time my vision cleared, the front door was shutting and he was gone, leaving me with a sandalwood scented piece of fabric with the initials WF stamped into it.

I’d always assumed it was a brand, and I’d tossed away the handkerchief after I’d used it to mop up my face. But now the truth was staring me in the face.

“You—”

“I have a few calls to make,” Warwick cut me off. “Why don’t you get cleaned up for bed, and I’ll meet you there in a bit. There’s a separate bathroom out here I can use.”

My mouth snapped shut. “And then what?”

His eyes narrowed. “You read the contract, correct? This marriage isn’t binding until it’s consummated.”

All the moisture in my mouth evaporated. I could only nod.

Warwick stared back at me, giving nothing away. Not a hint of emotion or empathy.

Swallowing hard, I turned and walked away from my husband.