4. Renee

When he’s done deciding the course of my future, my father leaves the library.

Deacon stays.

Part of me—a very, very small part, but a part nonetheless—knows I should be grateful they’re doing this. They’re saving me when I have no one left to rely on. So, yeah, gratitude—that’s what I’m trying to muster up.

But my God, it’s hard to be grateful when Deacon’s face looks like that. It’s the smug, arrogant sneer of a man who never lets you forget he’s deigning to do you a favor.

He sets down his cigar but keeps his whiskey in his hand as he saunters over. When he’s close enough, he reaches out and strokes one cold fingertip along my jawline. I try not to cringe, but I don’t do a great job of hiding it.

His face sours. “Renee, if you want to sell this to your father, you’re going to have to put a bit of effort in not to look nauseous when I touch you.”

He’s right, of course. “I am trying.”

“Well, you’re terrible at it.” This time, when he lays his hand over mine, I look up at him and picture the Weston I fell for—not the one who booted me out of the building into the arms of LAPD, but the one who held me in the middle of the empty arena with the spotlight on us and us alone while he kissed me softer than snowflakes.

And for a moment, I can smile.

He nods. “Better.”

But that effort takes a lot out of me. I wish I hadn’t eaten anything for lunch because now, it’s all churning in my belly. I make a mental note to take chicken salad out of the rotation until the baby is born.

So many things are going to change when the baby’s born that I can’t keep track. I’m going to have to start writing this stuff down.

Deacon clears his throat and withdraws his hand. “We need to iron out the rules.”

“Rules?”

“Yes, rules. Date nights. We need to be seen publicly. We need to touch one another.” And to demonstrate, he wraps his clammy palm around my wrist. “Often.”

“Right. Often.”

Come to think of it, chicken salad might not be the worst idea. At least it’ll look pretty much the same coming up as it did going down. If Deacon keeps talking to me like this, vomiting will be a regular occurrence.

“And we’ll have to be affectionate when we’re around others,” he adds. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

It’s super fucking wrong, asshole, is what I’d like to say, but I keep that little quip to myself. “Yes, honey.”

My Lord, those two words hurt to say.

His scowl deepens and he reaches out to touch those two ice-cold fingers under my chin until I have no choice but to meet his watery eyes. “Say it again. Like you mean it.”

I swallow. My tongue is dry in my mouth. “Yes, honey,” I mumble.

He holds me there for one more eternal second before he nods and lets me go, leaning back in the nearby armchair with a sigh.

That’s good. The farther he is from me, the less I want to puke.

Pulling out a notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket, he flips to the first page. “You’ll have six weeks from the birth of your bastard to lose every last ounce of the baby weight. I won’t tolerate a fat woman.”

Never mind. Nausea is back.

“And I’ll need a son of my own. I prefer a son.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, wipe that look off your face, sweetheart. I don’t intend to fuck you. I don’t abide by sloppy seconds and besides, I have a woman for that who doesn’t look like she wants to peel her skin off when I touch her. You and I will use artificial methods.”

That’s the weirdest kind of good news I’ve ever heard, but I’ll take what I can get right now. Although if Deacon calls my kid a “bastard” one more time, I’m going to use a butter knife to carve him like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“Since we’re going through our lists of demands, I have a few of my own.”

He arches an eyebrow but says nothing.

“I want my own living space,” I continue after an awkward pause.

“Of course.” He takes a long drink of his whiskey and smacks his lips. “You think I want you near me?”

“My own car.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Fine. Whatever.”

I sit upright and give him my most solemn stare. “Most of all, I want to make this clear: you and I are a business arrangement. You”ll get a wife and I”ll get a father for my child, but that”s all this is. I”m a trophy wife, not a whore. And you don’t get to call this baby names.”

He grimaces like he smells something bad, but instead of lashing out like I half-expected, he just nods. “Business and nothing more. Date if you want—but keep it quiet. You won’t like how I deal with it if things come to light.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll want you to move into my place immediately. We have appearances to keep up.”

“Of course.”

“As a general rule, you will remain in the guest house. When we have guests, you’ll stay at the main house. Your things will be gathered from the actress’s place. As for household staff…”

He drones on, but I stop listening. I just do my best bobblehead impression and agree with everything he says. It doesn’t take much longer to iron everything out before he seems satisfied enough to leave.

Though not without a parting line that sounds like something from a terrible supervillain. “I’ll come by tomorrow to collect you.”

And then he’s gone in a cloud of cigar stench and whiskey breath. I retreat, grateful—there’s that word again—to be alone again, if nothing else.

But being alone isn’t that much better than being with Deacon. Because there’s still too much Weston in my head. It’s like he’s here with me.

As I walk up the stairs, he’s at my side.

As I shower, he’s at my side.

As I turn out the lights in my bedroom and sleep beneath my covers, he’s at my side.

I wonder if I’ll ever be rid of him.