Page 4 of Marrying the Billionaire

Archer

What the hell am I going to do?

I wipe the sweat off my face with a towel, trying to concentrate on my last half mile, but it’s no use. My focus is shot.

I have bigger things to worry about today than my normal gym routine anyway.

I shut off the treadmill, not bothering to cool down, and head into the bathroom to take a quick shower and then into the kitchen, where the aroma of fresh coffee permeates the air.

My housekeeper, Lori, stands at the stove, flipping bacon in a skillet, her gaze flicking up to meet mine. “You’re done early. You’ll have to give me a few more minutes before it’s ready.”

“You’re fine.” I pour a cup, savoring the dark roast, letting my mind rest for a moment.

“How was the wedding last night?”

I nearly choke on my next sip, pounding on my chest till it goes down. “You didn’t hear?”

She pauses in turning over a slice of bacon. “Hear what?”

“I’m… married.” The phrase sounds foreign, the feel of it on my lips unnatural.

Her only reaction is a slight raise of her brows. “Wasn’t it your brother that was doing that?”

I sink down onto one of the bar stools, the cool metal chilling me slightly. “Yeah.”

“And is she invisible or something?”

“What?”

“Where is she?”

I shrug. “At her apartment, I guess.”

“You got married and you lost your wife already?”

“I didn’t lose her, I-” I stop myself, tamping down the rising emotion when I notice her smirk. She’s as bad as Gabriel trying to get a rise out of me. “I stepped in for my brother when he tried to call off the wedding at the altar. The marriage is in name only.”

I trust Lori not to tell anyone the truth. She’s like family at this point. Besides, there’s no way Serena and I could keep up the ruse at home too. Wait, is she going to live here? We never actually discussed anything like that.

“I wasn’t aware you’d become a soap opera character.”

I roll my eyes.

“I mean, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, a brief flashback running through me from last night accepting a never ending stream of well wishers. More like nosy bastards.

“So when do I get to meet the lucky lady?”

I clear my throat, realizing I don’t even have Serena’s phone number. For that matter, does she know where I live?

“Soon,” I answer, adding it to my mental list of things to do.

She plates the bacon and a trio of buckwheat pancakes in front of me, a tall glass filled with my matcha protein smoothie next to it.

I dig in, scratching at the back of my neck as I take the first few bites. I don’t even know my own wife’s phone number. How are we going to get through convincing everyone we’re a legitimate couple? The whole point of my inane gesture yesterday at the altar was to save the family from embarrassment, not create more of it.

I can already hear Dad quoting some tabloid article to me speculating about the state of my relationship. If we’re not seen out together, people will question if it was all a publicity stunt. He’ll claim the public can’t trust us anymore, stock will plummet, and so on and so forth until it ends with us bankrupt and laughingstocks. I know the way his mind works and the conclusions he’ll jump to. The need for perfection and inability to accept mistakes. I’ve done well over the years to use that knowledge to my advantage and keep ahead of the game.

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