Page 61 of A Forgotten Promise

Cora

To join you have to make him smile.

Or live with him instead of me.

Cora

We can all live in that mansion without him knowing.

Celeste

I’m staying in my loft.

Why did I get the dates wrong? I go to all the trouble to redesign his downstairs to score a point, and he erases it immediately, catching me unprepared.

Shit. I can’t even blame him. As much fun as I had making his living and dining room as tacky as possible, it wasn’t worth it.

What point was I after, anyway? That I’m an immature, bored, soon-to-be housewife with no style?

It seems like I’m the only one in this competition anyway. It’s annoying how he has everything under control while I float through my days aimlessly.

It’s like the Universe sent me Cormac Quinn to contrast with the current idle phase of my life. Well, thank you very much, dear Universe; perhaps send me a mentor, or a more inspiring example.

And he can cook? Like seriously, the man must be perfect at everything? I could have cooked, but… I groan.

I need to grow up, get out of his way, and only show up for the events. Maybe I can speed up the wedding prep and get this over with sooner. Yes, that’s what I need to do.

I’ll deliver on all the events beyond his expectations. Perform my part and push for the earliest wedding.

I twist my hair into a messy bun on top of my head. Betsy’s instructions stated a casual but classy look. I touch my cheeks with a bit of blush. I wouldn’t have bothered with makeup, but I look like a zombie by now, so I cover the circles below my eyes.

I review the schedule again. I need to find out more about that deal Corm is trying to close. Without that deal, I don’t get my divorce. I must get some information from Cal.

The doorbell snaps me into a frenzy of preparation. Why are they here already? I glance at my watch. Because, of course, they’re punctual.

Dashing to the closet, I put on an off-shoulder blue cashmere sweater and a pair of beige ankle-length slacks. A quick check in the mirror makes me pause. I actually look quite good. Funny how being away from the spotlight made me not care for myself at all.

But I do feel less shitty when I’m not wearing leggings or jeans and any old T-shirt. Maybe I should start my self-discovery with a bit of self-care.

I give myself a soft smile and take a selfie. As I exit my room, I quickly post it with a simple caption: showtime.

My gaze lands on the pic I took downstairs a few days ago. I forgot about that moment of radical honesty. I almost click on the delete button, but a female giggle from downstairs reminds me I have duties to perform.

Putting my phone into my pocket, I force a smile. Not that anyone can see me yet, but I need to fake it now. I might make it believable by the time I descend.

“Sorry I’m late,” I chirp while still mid-staircase, smiling as if my life depended on it. In some ways, it kind of does. Unfortunately for me.

Corm and a woman beside him with dark hair and orange lipstick—why, I ask?—turn their heads.

The woman returns my smile, and Corm… I swear he startles at seeing me.

He rakes his eyes down my body—the asshole is probably making sure I look presentable enough for his precious image—and then gives me a slow, sexy smile.

It’s shocking. And blinding. And—God save me—genuine. That can’t be.

He’s wearing jeans and a V-neck long-sleeve T-shirt. This dressed-down version of him is a new level of sexy. So unfair.

“Here you are, darling.” He walks toward me, offering his hand to aid my descent. “This is Diane, and she will be grilling us today.”

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