Page 125 of Insta Bride

That was the kicker.

I watched Benjamin and Kenzie try to get the attention of Ibby or Ronan, who couldn’t give a damn.

“Who the fuck does your missus think she is?” Benjamin had growled when our paths crossed at the bar.

“She’s having fun.”

“Didn’t know she was so well connected—with all the nightclubs.”

I ignored him, but the verbal punch landed. Through her friends, Elena knew all the right people. She’d stepped out and claimed her crown as Sydney social royalty. I would only ever be her consort.

Now, the morning of the commitment ceremony, and I had no expectations. My only salvation was knowing I’d gone down fighting.

I loved Elena.

I’d even tell her that, if she’d give me half the chance.

Hours dragged. By early afternoon, Benjamin and I were in a dressing room on the opposite side of the hotel as the girls.

Benjamin grudgingly informed me that he and Kenzie had been separated for a whole night—just so the cameras could record their reunion.

I didn’t give a flying fuck.

Elena had moved out of our home almost two weeks ago.

Our reunion could go one of two ways.

As if someone up there wanted to give me a sign, Elena wafted through the hotel speakers. The second time it happened, I thought it had just been jammed up on repeat. After the fourth time, Benjamin lost his shit. Tearing a new one from the hotel staff who were all too junior to change their underpants, let alone a song being pumped through the system.

“How much did you pay them?” Benjamin asked, hand clasped over his ears blocking any answer. So I didn’t even try. According to every news source, Australia’s favorite two bands were clogging up all the air waves, pushing one song and encouraging Australia to vote and Elena to give me a chance.

“Mr. Branson, can you come with me?”

Wearing a tailored black pantsuit and white blouse, Bree had never looked or sounded more formal.

I followed her down corridors, past locked rooms until we found the main ballroom. Large banners with the two last couples framed the stage, four large couches set out for the returning contestants, and rows of seating for the studio audience.

“Are you gonna tell me—”

“Don’t.” She snapped. “Don’t even try to talk your way out of this.”

“Are the cameras rolling?”

“How about you assume the cameras are always rolling.”

Fair call.

I followed Bree to the front row. Five people in dark suits and holding electronic devices seemed to be at the beck and call of a fifty-year-old male. I assumed he was Lloyd MacMillan, billionaire owner of investment companies, Softli director and the recent owner of the production company for Australian Love Story. Lloyd could buy and sell a dozen islands. What the fuck did he want with me?

I stood to the side, figuring I didn’t need to introduce myself to the man who’d paid for my honeymoon.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Lloyd dispensed with unnecessary formalities.

“I’m looking forward to seeing my wife, tonight.” What else was I supposed to say?

“Hmm.” The silence broken by crew moving stage props around to the direction of a new staging manager. Bree stood behind me. Not offering any support, but not deserting me.

“Mr. Branson, we had a contract.”

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