Page 40 of A Forgotten Promise

I snort. I didn’t force her to accept this deal. “This is mutually beneficial, but feel free to walk away.”

“You would love to win, wouldn’t you?” Her saccharine smile may give me diabetes.

And still, this is the face that sold shitloads of brands. Having spent almost no time with her, I already see how fake it is. How it looks colder up close and personal.

“Win? I didn’t realize we’re competing.”

She laughs. “Of course you didn’t.” She rolls her eyes again.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

I reach across the table and grab her hand. She flinches and tries to recoil, but I squeeze.

I have yet to meet a woman who is uncomfortable with my touch. I guess today is the day.

She looks away for a moment, and then raises her chin high. “Not everyone is thrilled about pretending to love a man who has the emotional depth of a spreadsheet.”

That rips an unexpected laugh out of me. I release her hand. “So I’m just a shallow man; that’s your main objection?”

“You humiliated me two years ago. Now you need me to save your man-whore image. That doesn’t make you a candidate for my best friend.” She takes the silver linen napkin and places it on her lap gracefully, smoothing it with her hand.

“I’d argue you humiliated yourself back then. And you need me to get your money, so that doesn’t give you the moral high ground here.” I pause and take her hand again, this time bringing it to my lips.

Staring into her cold eyes, I whisper against the soft skin of her delicate palm. “You’re contractually obliged to pretend to like me, The Morrigan. I suggest you try harder, because Daddy Dearest might never release the fund to you.”

She blanches, but forces a smile. I kiss her knuckles, and try to ignore the shitty feeling my words stirred in me. Or the electricity surging through me when my lips connect with her hand.

I keep patronizing, humiliating, and threatening this woman, while insisting she’s not a prop. Saar van den Linden certainly draws thebestout of me.

I don’t let go, my lips just lightly dusting her hand. She holds my gaze, and I wish I could read her train of thought.

She is probably considering if the trust fund is worth this whole charade.

I, on the other hand, am wondering if I can sneak in a clause about a shared bedroom into our agreement.

Someone clears their throat, and we both jump apart.

“Excuse me, your first course.” A different waiter approaches. “A chestnut bisque with golden shavings. Enjoy.” He places the plates in front of us and rushes away.

“Where is your ring?”

I didn’t expect her to wear it. To be honest, I got that right out of spite. Just to mess with everyone, because this situation feels too much out of my control.

Spending millions on a ring for a fake engagement isn’t reckless; it’s unhinged. What point did I make? That I’m a rich bastard who clings to control like a child to his security blanket? Fuck.

“We’re not yet engaged, but I appreciate the thoughtful and romantic gesture.”

“If you wanted romance, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be marrying for money.” I pick up my spoon.

“Not your money.” Her tone is terse, her countenance beaming. Fuck, she really can sell this well.

“The point remains.” I take a spoonful.

“If you think I’d ever wear that ring, you’re out of your mind. You. Don’t. Own. Me.”

“Saar,” I say, an apology for I don’t even know what on my tongue.

She blinks. “Betsy sent me the briefing.” She dips her spoon in the soup and brings it to her mouth. “I think the love story they fabricated is reasonable.”

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