Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Lyla stands up immediately as I charge toward them. I pause mid-step as I fully take her in. She’s wearing black heels and a beige dress past her knees but molded to each of her curves. Fuck. I would have hired her on the spot if she wasn’t mine and had shown up dressed like that for a job interview. Or not, since that would definitely end with an HR complaint. I feel the tension in the room building as I check her out and remember why I’m here.
“What the fuck is going on?” I close the distance between us and glare at Prescott, who looks amused, which further pisses me off.
“We just finished up a meeting,” my fiancée says simply.
“Why’s Prescott here?” I look at him again.
“Because he’s my lawyer,” she says, answering for him.
The motherfucker leans in and plucks his glass of champagne from my dad’s desk and starts to sip on it. Oh, I’m going to kill him. He was my right wing for four years, my enforcer, my boy. Does that mean nothing to him?
“Why are you here?” I look at my mother, who looks worried.
She probably thinks I’m going to cause a big scene, and start flipping and breaking shit. The verdict is still out on that.
“Because we were dress shopping and she asked if I wanted to tag along,” she responds.
My eyes narrow. “Why the champagne?”
“Because everything is set for the wedding and I found a dress,” Lyla says.
I narrow my eyes at everyone and land on my father. “Is that what the TWO-HOUR meeting is about?”
“I’m not getting involved,” he says, putting up his hands.
“My wife is sitting in your office.” I snap. “You’re already involved.”
“Your fiancée,” he says with a smile.
Oh-ho-ho. I’m going to jail today.
I try to focus on breathing and look at Lyla again, since she’s the only one in this office I’m not liable to kill, even if it is her fault they’re all here.
“Is this really about the wedding?” I ask as calmly as I can.
“It’s partially about the wedding, yes,” she says.
Partially? I turn around momentarily, sinking my fingers into my hair, exhaling in frustration, and turn back to her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”
“Because I knew you’d come in here and try to take over the entire thing.”
I scowl. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Really?” She shoots me a look.
A wave of snickers spreads throughout the room and I feel my anger rising. I give each person an intense glare again, since the first one didn’t seem to work. I wrap my hand around Lyla's wrist and pull her away from the group. The office is massive, but it's not big enough to provide enough privacy for us. And I can’t take this out into the hall and risk employees hearing us argue. I drop her hand when I feel we’re at a good distance.
“Why do you need ‘your lawyer?’” I ask, air-quoting as I glare at Prescott again. He’s drinking and typing on his phone with his free hand.
“I wanted to go over the contract you made me sign blindly that night.”
“And you had to do it today?” I ask. “The day before our wedding?”
My heart sinks. What the hell does this mean? She can’t walk away. I can’t fucking lose her again. The rational part of me knows she won’t. But the angry, emotional child inside me is terrified she might. She means more to me than anyone in the world. If she does that, it’ll fucking crush me. She brings her hands up to caress my face. My eyes shut instinctively. I’m addicted to everything she does to me, and she knows it. I grab her wrists and lower her hands from my face.
“Yes, it needed to be today,” she says simply.
“Did you change something?” I ask, searching her face.
“Some things, yes.”
“What things?”
“Some things I didn’t like. I also added some stipulations,” she says, as if that’s a better explanation.
“What. . .things?” I grit my teeth. She raises an eyebrow at me. I Ignore it. Fuck that. “What things, Lyla James?”
She stares at me for a moment — that stare of hers that gives away nothing, the one she never uses with me, the one I fucking hate more than anything. After a moment, a deep, worried frown appears on her face. I almost laugh. She’s fucking worried?
“I would never leave you,” she says quietly when she finally speaks. “You know that, right?”
Oh, fuck. My chest squeezes hard. I try to look away, but she grabs my face. I shut my eyes. It’s not like I didn’t have abandonment issues before her. I don’t need a therapist to confirm that — though one did, when my anger became a problem at home. It’s one of the many reasons I never let anyone in. And I didn’t just let Lyla in. Of course not. Like her, I can’t do anything half-assed. I allowed her to fucking consume me in a way I never thought possible. I remind myself again that she’s not going to leave me, but the uncertainty creeps up anyway.