8. Emily

Marry him. As in, become his wife. As in, walk down the aisle with an utter stranger, some Greek-god-looking crazy person, and move into his house. And wear his ring.

And have his baby.

I could almost get on board. I mean, I'm not stupid. I can see how this would solve all my problems and then some. Five years isn't all that long—and I'd probably do much worse for a guaranteed ten grand a month for the rest of my life.

Only that would mean touching him. Probably kissing him too. And letting him kiss me, and touch me back, and touch me everywhere, and put his dick inside me?—

And I can't do it.

Because I want to do it, and that's the problem.

I don't get any sleep that night. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinking about fucking Simon until I'm a sweaty mess. I try getting myself off, but finger-and-toy stuff isn't cutting it. I want the real deal. I want Simon to pin me down like a savage and fuck me like a beast on our wedding night.

Which is why I can't go through with it.

The second I become his wife, he'll have me. Maybe he needs me for this family leadership scheme of his, but there's more he's not saying. I'll say the vows and immediately I'll be in over my head, and all the while I'll be stuck thirsting after some man I'll never really have. Because why would a guy that looks like Simon ever want a girl like me? Some poor, dead-broke nothing that couldn't even get herself together long enough to apply to college, some whatever-who-cares-nobody that hasn't held a single job for more than a couple years.

It'd be pathetic. Even more pathetic than I already am.

And if my father taught me one thing, it's that there are real predators in this world. There are men that want to take things from me and who will stop at nothing to get what they want.

Men who will lie and say whatever they have to say to get what they want.

Simon is one of those guys.

It's written all over him. He caught me stealing and barely seemed to care. He broke into my car without thinking twice. He sifted through my life and my father's finances as if he owns the rights to me.

If I marry him, he'll destroy me. He can say whatever he wants now—but he'll drain me.

And all the while I'll be busy wanting more.

I'll fall for it. That's the worst part. If I go through with this, I'll fall for it, and he'll ruin me.

Just like those scamming bastards ruined my dad.

I can't do it.

He's just too good to be true, and I won't let myself get suckered.

Which, if I'm being totally honest, is not easy to tell myself when I get up at four-thirty after zero hours of sleep to go make bagel sandwiches for six hours.

There are a dozen times during my shift when I'm tempted to run back to Cucina and beg Ethan to get in touch with Mr. Bianco. Who cares if I'm just an easy mark? Letting him bleed me dry has to be better than getting bacon grease in my hair.

It's a near thing. I want to pretend like I'm big and strong, like I'm some epic hero or whatever. Instead, I'm just a girl, and not even a particularly stubborn one.

My manager lets me take some extra bagels home when I'm done with my shift and I decide to give them to my dad. He needs the carbs, and anyway, if there's one person in the world that can remind me what kind of monsters are lurking out there, it's him.

Not that I'd ever tell him the details of my conversation with Simon.

It's bad enough I'm giving him money—if he knew some random ultra-rich psychopath was proposing marriage and trying to knock me up in exchange for paying off his debts, he'd go absolutely ballistic.

I park out front and head inside. I drop the bagels in the kitchen, but don't spot Dad anywhere. His car's out front, which is good, because he shouldn't be driving anymore, but he refuses to give it up. "Dad?" I call out and poke my head up the stairs.

I hear something. It's faint but coming from his room. Instantly, I'm hit with a jolt of adrenaline, and a million different worst-case scenarios play out in my head: he fell, he had a heart attack, he's stuck somewhere and can't get up, or a dozen other indignities. I hurry up the steps and rush into his room?—

Only to find him sitting on his bed with his back to me, a photo album open on his lap, weeping into his hands.

I don't move. I feel glued in place. My father's shoulders and back shake with sobs, and I don't know what to do. My insides are mush, and my toes are numb.

I've never seen him cry before, not since my mother died. He was always so big, so stoic, so damn strong. Even when he broke down and told me about the scam, he didn't shed a tear. He keeps it together; that defines my father. He's dependable. He's always been my rock.

Now, he looks so small, so horribly sad, and so damn old.

It kills me. It rips my heart in half. I take a step forward, because I need to hug him, I need to tell him that I love him and he gave me the greatest childhood a girl could ever imagine, anything to take away this soul-ripping agony he's going through.

But he looks up, startled, and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. "Emily," he says and slams the photo album closed. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Hey, Dad." I hang, pausing halfway between us. He draws himself up, putting on his mask again, though his eyes are red and bleary. "You okay?"

"Fine," he says and forces himself to laugh. I want to scream at how he pretends and hides how he feels. "Just looking at old pictures of you and your mom, that's all. Got a little dust in my eyes."

"Yeah, totally, a little dust. Need me to vacuum some more?"

"Nah, kiddo. I may be old, but I'm not useless." He clears his throat and tosses the album aside. "What're you doing here? I didn't think you'd show up until later today."

"Got some extra bagels at work. I thought you might want them."

"Ah, come on, you keep them. You've been looking so damn skinny lately." He's one to talk. The man barely eats anymore. My dad is frail. I hate it so much.

He grins at me, shaking his head and trying to discreetly wipe his eyes. I feel like I'm going to break down, but Dad would hate that, and I don't want to make him have to comfort me when he's clearly going through so much worse.

"How about we both have one. I'm kind of starving after my shift anyway."

"Perfect," he says, drifting to his bathroom. "Just gonna use the john. You go get them toasted, okay?"

"Sure, Dad." I turn away, because what else can I do? Breaking the illusion would be cruel. He needs his game to keep a piece of himself intact. Otherwise, he'd have to admit how much he's lost, and I don't think my father can handle that.

I go downstairs and I toast bagels, feeling like I'm floating, because my father is suffering and I could end it tomorrow. I cry as quietly as I can and make sure that he doesn't notice, making damn sure that he doesn't take my own suffering on top of his.

I could fix everything for him and more.

If only I was willing to feed myself to a stranger.