Chapter 11

ELEVEN

It's happened again.

My hands are clammy, and my muscles seize under my bed sheets. I wake in a cold sweat as heat pumps through my veins. I force myself to calm my shallow breathing, focusing on counting each breath. The blood in my veins feels like it's been injected with a straight shot of adrenaline.

Concentrated breathing usually helps, but it never erases the same nightmare from my brain. Sitting up, I drive the heels of my hands into my eyes and want to scream. I fucking hate this bullshit. It's been six years, and somehow, I still haven't moved on.

I roll out of bed and head straight for the shower to let the scorching hot water run down the length of my back, washing away the memory of my nightmare. For the first few years after her death, I saw a therapist after finding myself waking up in a panic more nights out of the weekend than not.

She'd given me medicine to help me sleep longer and harder, but it didn't work. After a year of trying, I stopped altogether. Then she'd wanted to try some hypnotic therapy, and after the first session, I decided it simply wasn't for me. I was too freaked out to do it more than once. So, instead of solving the problem or searching for another solution, I've been suffering from the same nightmare for the past six years. Without fail. Some weeks are worse than others. Sometimes the dream only appears once. If I'm lucky.

It's become a part of me; a sliver from my life I choose to ignore. At least, of course, until I wake up again, feeling as if I've been pushed off the edge of a cliff and plummeted to my death.

My tense muscles relax under the hot water, and I'm thankful for the relief it brings. I try everything I can to get my mind off my dream. I think about the wedding and how in five days, Harding Holdings will finally be in my control. With a daunting task and client list ahead of me, I think of all the money I'm going to be raking in once I'm able to close all the deals I have lined up. Erik Larsson's being one of them. The closer we reach the thirty-day deadline, the more I understand my father's reasoning. At first, I thought he was foolish for putting the company in jeopardy, considering how thirsty for power and hungry for money he was. But even though I haven't been able to close any deals and deposit money into our accounts, we haven't even made a dent in our capital. Harding Holdings has been built to sustain itself for quite some time.

After my shower, I head for my large walk-in closet, opting to wear my usual black button down and black suit. I'm closing a cufflink when my phone vibrates on top of my dresser.

My heart pounds in my chest when I see Laurel's name flash across the screen. Only five days until we're married and she's mine.

I've tried to tone down the way I react when I do or say anything that involves her, but I can't. Maybe it's nerves or maybe it's the weight of what we're about to do finally hitting me. But I won't deny the way she effortlessly pulls a reaction out of me.

I sit on the edge of my bed, sliding my feet into my shoes as I open her text.

Mrs. Harding: Invitations are done. I told Olivia I wanted to hand deliver mine, so she left them with my front desk at work. She's sending yours out in the mail today.

Below her text is a picture of one of the invitations. Dark crimson red, purple, and black watercolor painted flowers border the small rectangular card. Printed in gold lettering is mine and Laurel's names, the date and time of the wedding, and the address of my mother's summer house. When Laurel told me she dreamed of getting married surrounded by flowers and the ocean, it was the first place that came to mind.

Normally, going to that house would be difficult, but this is different. I know my brothers will be shocked when they receive their invitations as well. I haven't spoken to them since Laurel agreed to marry me. Not because I've been avoiding them. Although if I did happen to catch sight of them, I probably would, mostly to avoid the million questions I'm certain they will have about how I convinced Laurel to go through with the wedding. A question that remains unanswered. But for the most part, I'd avoid them because I'm worried they'll see how different I am with her. For years, they've watched me keep woman after woman at arm's length. Superficial relationships. Women who are only interested in a good fuck or a juicy rumor.

I may be in the business of money and luxuries among other things. A serious relationship not being one of them.

I smile reading Laurel's text. I find myself doing that a lot more lately. It's especially odd after having woken up from my nightmare again, the adrenaline still slithering down the length of my spine and latching onto the back of my mind, refusing to let go.

I inhale a deep breath and remove the heartbreak and sadness in my mother's eyes from my mind, replacing it with the vision of Laurel the other day in my conference room. The sound of her heel falling to the floor and the gasp I heard pass through her lips. My cock started to swell at the sound, as well as from the way her body radiated heat. I imagined my fingers re-exploring her body just to watch how she reacts. Would her back arch as my thumbs grazed over her peaked nipples? Would her legs spread farther for me if I bent her over the table and slid my hand slowly along her inner thighs? Would her eyes turn hungry as her pretty little mouth begs for my cock to be inside her?

My heart is starving for the answers. I've never felt this way for any of the women I've been with.

I've been working to keep Laurel at a distance and my feelings in check. There have been a few times where I've caught myself being vulnerable with her. The first time I caught myself was when we were messaging in the middle of the night after not being able to sleep. It's not that I want to give Laurel a terrible perception of me. Although, I know she has already made one, especially since I haven't talked about the night we met. And I've pushed her away at every turn up until my father's will reading.

Wow, I can be an asshole.

But I made a promise, and I don't intend on breaking it.

Promises are sacred. Promises are spoken oaths forged in invisible steel. Promises are absolute, and a promise made on your mother's deathbed is one that is unequivocally absolute.

I type out a response.

Me: Black flowers? A little dark for wedding invitations, don't you think?

Grinning to myself, I make a quick espresso before heading down to meet my driver, Ray. Teasing Laurel has become my new addiction. Soon, I won't be able to control myself and I'll give in.

I'm sliding into the back seat when my phone vibrates in my hand with her response.

Mrs. Harding: I figured it was appropriate. They match the color of your heart. lol

I try to focus on the ‘lol' at the end but something in Laurel's text hits me in a place I don't expect it to.

Does she think our marriage is equivalent to a funeral? Is she dreading marrying me?

I know this situation isn't ideal, but I swear I can feel something between us. Surely, I'm not the worst person she'd be tying the knot with, right?

Hope wraps around my worries, reassuring me she wouldn't have agreed to this if she thought that way, regardless of knowing her reasoning or not.

After shutting my screen off, I stare out the window and all the buildings passing me by.

I swallow around the thickness in my throat.

Fuck, this woman owns me and she isn't even officially mine.

But even when she is and I slip the ring on her finger, she still won't be because this is all transactional. A marriage of convenience. An arranged marriage. Whatever you want to fucking call it.

But again, I made a promise, and anything other than a real marriage simply won't do.

I digest Laurel's dig and continue this game we've played for the past few weeks.

Me: Touché. Well, I hope you're ready to marry me and this black heart in just a few short days. Have a great day, Mrs. Black Heart.

Ray pulls the car along the curb outside my building when Laurel texts back. I find myself smiling when her message is a simple black heart emoji.

Yep, this woman owns me and this little black heart of mine.