Page 61 of Wicked King

“Same here, wifey.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Well, what should I call you, then? You didn’t approve of spitfire either. Honey? Babe? Boo?”

“Let’s just live in silence.” I lean against the tinted window, the beginnings of a headache thrumming along my temples.

“Fine.”

The remainder of the car ride through the bustling Manhattan city center is spent in silence. I have more than enough to consider with my spiraling thoughts. When the Bentley finally pulls up to the Waldorf, the thrashing anxiety begins again.

The driver circles the car and opens the door on Marco’s side. My new husband slides out, and I briefly consider jumping into the front seat and making a quick getaway. Would anyone catch me? Could I make it to the Canadian border?

Yéye’s weary gaze fills my mind and I toss all thoughts of escape out the window. This is my duty. Not to marry this man or be his perfect wife, but to lead the Four Seas. That would be my focus from now on. Not to mention my boutique. Tomorrow, I’d divert all my attention back to opening my shop.

Just because Marco and I are married, it doesn’t mean my life has to change much. Sure, I’ll be living in a posh penthouse and running a notorious crime syndicate, but besides that, everything could stay the same.

You’re delusional, Jia. I really must have been because that inner voice sounds a lot like my dead brother. All these weeks I haven’t even thought twice of him. Maybe it was only an excuse to hate my future husband…

Marco’s head appears through the door, a line of irritation furrowing his brow. “Are you coming or what?” He throws his hand out, palm up.

Heaving out a breath, I glide across the leather seat and ignore his offered hand. Guards already line the front door of the Waldorf. Only invited guests are permitted to enter the hotel today due to the infamous VIPs. Besides the crime bosses, the guest list includes a list of the city’s most influential political and business elite: the mayor, some senators, a few congressmen, and a whole host of CEOs. The only reason I know any of this is that I’d had Marco’s assistant send me the list of invitees last night. It had been partially out of curiosity, but more so to get a chance to chat with Marco’s ex. It was silly and petty, or at least I’d thought so until my new husband let it slip that he’d been on his way to rekindle an old flame when he’d nearly been shot.

Asshole.

Fighting hard to hold onto the anger, I march up the red carpet and through the front door of the hotel. Marco walks a few steps behind me, and even at this distance, I can feel his fury.

I still don’t understand what he’s so upset about. He should be relieved I’m allowing this open arrangement. Despite his claims otherwise, I’m certain his desire to be with me only stems from my virginal status. Once he’s had me, he’ll grow tired of the novelty and want nothing more than to be let loose. I’m sure of it.

His hand latches around mine as a camera flashes an inch from my nose. “Smile for the camera, Jia,” he mutters.

“I am.” I shoot the photographer a feral grin.

“Just remember, you’re going to have to look back at these pictures for the rest of our lives.” He lowers his voice and leans in so that his warm breath skates across my ear. “Assuming you don’t try to have me shot again.”

“I didn’t,” I grit out. “So you should probably find out who did.”

“Trust me, I will.” He drags me into the lobby, and my team of stylists swallows me whole, forcing my husband to release my hand.

I’m powdered, perfectly groomed, and fussed over again, while Marco stands a few feet away, murmuring to one of the guards. The typically tight security is doubled today with every inch of the lobby crawling with men in black uniforms and earpieces.

As soon as the stylists back away, Marco is at my side once again. “You ready to go in?” He offers his hand, and this time, I take it.

“Do I have any other choice?”

CHAPTER 30

PERFECT

Jia

“Did it really have to be eight courses?” I grouse around a mouthful of tortellini. Marco sits beside me, shoveling the pasta into his mouth. He’s been oddly quiet throughout the lengthy meal. We are only on the fourth course, and already, I’m certain I’ll burst. I haven’t eaten a thing all day and of course, now I’m ravenous. Also, I have no idea how I’ll get out of my wedding gown tonight without help.

I doubt my stylists will be accompanying me back to the bridal suite. My stomach flip-flops at the thought. The idea of being alone with my new husband has a tangle of nerves, fear, and inexplicable desire flooding my chest. I refuse to consider what the last part means.

“Yes,” he finally mumbles. “The wedding meal is supposed to be a feast, to regale the guests with your wealth and provide the couple with sustenance for a long wedding night.” He smirks and for an instant, the joking, light-hearted mob boss I met resurfaces.

“Well, at this rate, I might fall asleep before we make it to our suite.”

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