4. Olivier

Iget zero kisses or smiles when I show up for brunch two days after Jefferson bailed me out of jail.

The mood in my parents' penthouse is somber. The heavy gray skies dumping all the snow I had to walk through to get here add to the drag in the atmosphere.

I can count on one hand how many times I've been in serious trouble with my parents, and those all happened my senior year of high school. There was the time my mom walked in on me fucking my dad's client's daughter—I was grounded for a week.

There was the time Jefferson found a bottle of tequila in my backpack and ratted me out—grounded for a week.

And there was the time my friends trashed the Hamptons house. My parents came home to find me passed out on a deck chair. I was banned from throwing parties for the rest of the summer.

I'm not sure any of my teenage shenanigans could have prepared them for something like this.

My father stares at me, silent as a graveyard, and my mother wipes away a continuous stream of tears.

Yes, I've seen the video.

No, I don't remember what happened. I blacked out so hard, I don't even remember if I had sex with Khaleesi, who wound up being Jessa Fawn, an adult film actress who sustained whiplash and bruises when I rear-ended the stopped taxi while she was palming my cock from the passenger seat. And she hasn't shut up about it in the press since.

I've tried calling my parents dozens of times in the last twenty-four hours. No response. I've spammed them with texted apologies and pleas for understanding, begging them to talk to me. Radio silence.

Jefferson was the one who contacted me about what time to show up today. My father's lawyer Bob Cohen is in my usual spot at the table, which means I'm in deep shit.

There's no food laid out, not that I could eat anything right now if I tried. I'm not even offered a coffee. All I have at my seat is a glass of water. Probably from the tap.

"Olivier," Bob begins.

My skin erupts in chills.

"Would you like the bad news or the good news first?"

"There's good news?" I ask, a much-needed spark of hope lighting my chest.

"We paid off the actress to keep her from talking anymore, and we're in talks with the DA to drop the multiple charges."

I don't even want to ask. It's all such a fucking relief that tears well in my eyes.

"The bad news is," my father cuts in, "You won't get off with us so easily."

I give him a solemn nod, and a few tears manage to spill over. I've always cried easy.

I figure they're going to make me move back in with them. Sell my penthouse and my car—that kind of thing. It's fucking tragic, but I've been slowly coming to terms with my probable fate since I woke up in a cell. "Yes, sir."

"This wasn't some little incident we can sweep under the rug this time, Olivier. This is a scandal. For the last twenty-four hours I've been determined to throw you on the mercy of the system. Prove that our family in no way condones these—excesses—and we're not too proud to face the consequences of your actions. You can thank Bob and your mother for talking me out of that."

My chin trembles as I try to hold in a sob of relief. I am not cut out for prison. "Thank you," I manage to whisper.

"Restoring the family reputation is going to cost me a fortune, and that means you'll have to pay."

"Anything," I say.

"Good. I've tolerated the drugs, the hookers, the Page Six gossip, the salacious bits on TMZ, but this is too much. You need to clean up your act. Now. If you don't—I'm cutting you off."

Hookers?He thinks I have to pay people to sleep with me? I shake off the thought—not important. The point is, I believe him when he says he wants to cut me off. Sort of. I mean, I'm their only child. It's hard to believe they'd just hang me out to dry and let me try to make it on my own. They know I have no life skills. I can barely boil water, much less do something like pay taxes. I shudder.

"Anything," I say again. As long as I'm not cut off, I can handle whatever he throws at me.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, because we'll be moving quickly. You're familiar with the Lafayette Family?"

Is this a trick question?

Elodie Lafayette was the bad girl of St. Agatha's prep. The daughter of a media magnate, she's a socialite, a fashion influencer, and a notorious nymphomaniac. She makes Page Six twice as often as I do. She's a real freak. Of course I've heard of her. Everyone's heard of her. How she could possibly help me out of this situation, I have no clue. She's one of the only women my age on the Upper East side I haven't fucked. She's terrifying.

I nod, wary.

Bob clears his throat. "I also represent the Lafayettes," he says. "Elodie is becoming an increasing issue for them—she recently posted a sex tape that went viral before we had a chance to move on it."

I'm aware… Like I said—terrifying.

"At the moment, her family is keeping her on a tight leash, but with your little problem, we're now in the position to kill two wayward birds with one stone, if you will."

I chew the inside of my lower lip which has begun to quiver. I'm officially scared shitless.

"We'll announce your engagement in two weeks," my father says. "In exchange, we'll take shares of each other's businesses, which marries our families' financial fates. You fuck this up, you fuck with your inheritance. Same goes for Elodie. In the meantime, you'll clean up your act. No more drugs. No more hookers. No. More. Drunk. Driving. I'm confiscating your car."

Jesus Christ.

The enormity of the situation comes at me in waves. The consequences for disobedience—the pressure.

"Engagement?" I manage to whisper.

"Non-negotiable. How you deal with the wedding and the marriage is up to you, but you better keep your bullshit quiet. It's time to grow up, Olivier. Consider your days of bachelorhood officially over."

The words cut like the drop of a guillotine.

My head practically lolls, slack-jawed on the floor.

My mother pulls herself together enough to say a few words. "It's for the best, Ollie. Maybe the two of you can be good for each other."

I fight the bark of a laugh I want to let loose. Clearly, they haven't seen Elodie lately—and I highly doubt they watched the "sex tape." But if they had, they'd know—she's not marriage material. At all.

But what choice do I have? I'm about as willing to be cut off financially as I am to have my dick severed from my body. So, with that, I swallow hard and say, "Yes, ma'am. Whatever it takes."

She sighs with a metric ton of relief. She reaches for my father's hand, and he takes it gently in his.

Something about the gesture must soften my father's heart. "Son, you don't need to stay married to her indefinitely. Just until you both calm down and grow up a little. And who knows—you seem to have a lot in common. Maybe you'll be good for each other."

I'm not even going to argue about how little Elodie and I have in common because all I can think right now is Thank God. I have a chance for probation. I know better than to ask questions, but I can infer a few things.

With all the trouble they're going to and this timeline, I'm guessing the marriage needs to last a while. There will be speculation in the press that it's all a sham, so we're going to have to act happy and boring enough to leave them no choice but to make it look like a real marriage for the interested public. And if that's the case, I'm potentially looking at something like three years. I could be single again by the time I turn thirty. This isn't a death sentence.

I inhale shakily. I can do this. "So what's next?"

"We'll have the Lafayettes over tonight. You'll take Elodie home with you, figure out your plan, and have a public date tomorrow night."

Makes sense. Makes me sick to think about, but it makes sense. Sounds like something me or Elodie would do, minus the follow-up date which will be news for sure. "What time is dinner?" I whisper.

"Eight o'clock. Dress sharp. If you have any more questions, we'll speak tonight. You're dismissed."

I glance at my mom, who isn't looking at me. I'm dismissed? Uh…okay. I rise on shaky legs and nod toward my father. "Yes, sir."

Despite what Ipromised my parents, I can't bring myself to throw away the cocaine. I snort a few lines, hide it in my dresser, and then go on a cleaning spree. I try my best not to think about tonight—about Elodie—in my home.

Correction: my father's home. I survive at his pleasure.

God, I fucked up so bad. It's a blessing, really, that I can't remember much of it. The things I do remember are bad enough. I can't believe my mugshot is trending.

Granted, if this had happened to Trip, I'd be laughing my ass off. But the thing is, my phone's been utterly silent. No one's called, no one's invited me out, no one's even texted to see if I'm doing okay.

Not even Dominick, and he's got the moral code of a mafia hit man.

I survey the penthouse when I can't think what to do next. It's not as clean as the maid leaves it, but it's better than it was, I guess? I don't know. I'm not much of a housekeeper—shocker, I know.

I'm dreading tonight so much, I don't even jerk off in the shower, which is usually a given, and one of the reasons I'm always so clean.

I dress in my nicest suit—a slim-cut, midnight blue YSL with a fine, almost invisible pinstripe. My undershirt is Armani. Silk. Crisp white. A scarlet tie completes the look—vive la France. I futz with my curls long enough for them to look carelessly perfect, and I slide on my Rolex before gathering my keys, wallet, and a small vial of cocaine, which I tuck into my breast pocket. Just in case.

The building's lobby smells like snow, and Brewd rises from his seat to open the door for me, but not before scraping his gaze from my shoes to my face and giving me a knowing smirk.

Great. So everyone knows. He better not fucking say anything.

I can't even summon a glare. The humiliation is too complete. I'm nearly clear of the doorway before I hear his low voice call after me, "Try to stay out of trouble, 1204."

"Go fuck yourself."

And yes, that does make me feel better.

How to describe Elodie Lafayette.

Well.

She's about five-foot-six, I'm guessing a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Fake tits. Hourglass figure. And then it gets trickier. She has long, wavy, nearly black hair, which she's wearing down tonight. She has a septum piercing along with myriad holes in her ears. She also has a clit piercing—which was once an urban legend but proven true by the sex tape. She has one tattoo on her right inner wrist, and a face that is traditionally beautiful. However, the gleam in her eyes gives her away for who she really is. It enhances her basic beauty and takes her up a notch into fuckhot territory. If anyone in the world masturbates more than I do—I'm guessing it's her.

"Olivier, you remember my daughter Elodie. You went to St. Agatha's together, no?"

Mr. Lafayette grins beneath his waxed mustache as Elodie and I regard each other warily. I offer her a hand and a quick bow. "We did. You look lovely tonight, Elodie."

Also on her best behavior, she smiles politely. "And you look very handsome, Olivier. I love your tie."

The words might sound innocent to the untrained ear, but there's more to them, as in—I'd love for you to hog-tie me with it and spank me while you piss on my tits.

She's not safe.

"I'm sure you two have a lot of catching up to do," Mr. Lafayette says, gracefully backing away. Beyond him, I catch the watchful gaze of my parents before turning back to my future bride.

Fuck.

She and I share a long stare until a slow smirk spreads on her full, red lips. "This is going to be so much fun."

"How do you figure?"

"Gets me out of the house for one." She takes a sip of her champagne.

I clasp my hands behind my back and try to appear interested.

"How soon do you think I can move in?" she asks.

"You're not moving in," I tell her. That was not part of the deal.

"Ollie," she fake-pouts, "I have to. What do you expect me to do, sneak out through the service entrance every morning? We'll be spending nearly every night together."

"Is that how it was explained to you? I was imagining more of a public courting process."

She snorts. "A courting process that begins with me going home with you tonight? Okay."

I inhale, trying to draw on my inner gentleman. He's got to be in here somewhere. "The point is to show we've changed."

She arches a brow. "There's no reason we can't enjoy it."

"Your definition of fun and mine might be more different than you realize."

She shrugs carelessly. "You like to fuck. I like to get fucked. What? Am I not hot enough for you?"

"Am I hot enough for you?" I counter.

She takes a moment to look me over. "I can work with it. I've heard good things."

I want to fucking die.

"We don't have to be faithful, you know?" I tell her. "As long as we're discreet, my penthouse is huge. We can do whatever we want."

"Do you trust either one of us to be discreet? I don't know about you, but I'm not about to risk my inheritance for a one-night stand with someone who has a camera phone and a big mouth. Besides, if I end up liking you, I can be one jealous bitch."

See?Scary.

If we're doing this, we're doing it my way. "Let's take this one step at a time. I've agreed to the engagement and the marriage. The rest is still negotiable."

She sighs. "Fine. I'm on my period anyway."

Jesus.