Page 5 of Knot Like Other Girls

A harried-looking doctor emerges from the room, shaking his head. He spots me and makes a beeline in my direction.

"Are you with Mr. Worthington?" he asks, his voice low and strained.

I nod, bracing myself for whatever's coming next.

The doctor runs a hand through his thinning hair. "Miss, I don't mean to be rude, but... is he always like this?"

For the second time tonight, I find myself nodding in response to that question. "Pretty much, yeah."

He sighs heavily. "We've explained to Mr. Worthington that his injury is extremely minor. But he's insisting on plastic surgery consultation and demanding we admit him for observation."

I can only imagine the fit Braxley must be throwing. "I'm sorry," I say, feeling a strange need to apologize on his behalf. "He's... very concerned about his appearance."

The doctor's expression is a mix of disbelief and resignation. "Miss, I've treated actual gunshot wounds that were less dramatic than this."

A nurse appears at the doctor's elbow, looking frazzled. "Doctor, Mr. Worthington is threatening to call his lawyer if we don't give him a private suite. With a view of the ocean."

The doctor closes his eyes for a moment, as if praying for strength. When he opens them, he fixes me with a pleading look. "Is there any chance you could talk to him? Maybe calm him down a bit?"

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. The idea of me having any influence over Braxley's behavior is almost as ridiculous as his demand for ocean-view accommodations on an emergency room visit.

But I nod anyway, because what else can I do? "I'll try," I say, not bothering to hide the resignation in my voice.

As I follow the nurse back to Braxley's room, I can't help but think about how surreal this all is. Less than two hours ago, I was dreading a proposal. Now, I'm playing damage control for my "fiancé" who's having a meltdown over a scratch.

The universe, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor.

Braxley's room is a disaster zone. Gauze wrappers and discarded bandages litter the floor. The bed sheets are rumpled and half-hanging off the mattress. And in the center of it all is Braxley, perched on the edge of the bed, his phone held at arm's length as he examines his reflection.

"Bella!" he exclaims when he sees me, his voice a mixture of relief and accusation. "Where have you been? I've been going through hell here!"

I bite back a sarcastic response. "I was filling out your paperwork," I say instead, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. "How are you feeling?"

He lets out a dramatic sigh. "How do you think I'm feeling? Look at me!" He thrusts his phone in my face, the screen showing a zoomed-in image of his eyebrow. The cut is barely visible now that it's been cleaned.

"It doesn't look that bad," I try, knowing it's futile. "I'm sure with a little makeup?—"

"Makeup?" Braxley shrieks, causing a nurse passing by to jump. "I can't cover this up with makeup! They'll see the texture beneath! My followers expect perfection, Bella. Per-fec-tion!" He enunciates each syllable like he's talking to a child.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself why I'm here. Why I have to see this through. "Braxley, the doctors say you don't need to stay overnight. Maybe we should just go back to the hotel and?—"

"Go back?" He looks at me like I've suggested we swim back to the mainland. "Are you insane? I've been shot, Bella! I could have internal injuries! I could be bleeding into my brain right now!"

"You weren't shot," I say, my patience wearing thin. "The bullet barely grazed you. You're fine."

Braxley's lower lip starts to tremble. For a moment, I think he might actually cry. Instead, he pulls himself up to his full height and fixes me with what I assume is meant to be a stern look.

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation," he says, his voice low and serious. "This isn't just about me. This is about us. Our brand. How are we supposed to be the ultimatepower couple if I look like... like..." He gestures vaguely at his face. "Like this?"

I stare at him, a strange calm settling over me. In this moment, with Braxley fretting over his "disfigurement" and our "brand," something becomes crystal clear.

I can't do this.

I can't marry this man. I can't tie myself to someone who cares more about his follower count than the fact that we were just in genuine danger. I can't spend my life playing second fiddle to a camera lens and a ring light.

"Braxley," I start, my voice steadier than I feel. "I think we need to talk about?—"

But before I can finish, the door bursts open. A whirlwind of Chanel No. 5 and hair spray sweeps into the room, and suddenly Braxley is enveloped in his mother's arms.

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