Page 129 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
"Fine." He holds up his hands. "But you should know that there is lot of talk already."
"Oh?" I pick up another book flip it open.
"The tabloids got wind of the wedding.
"Took them what, 24 hours? They’re losing their touch."
"No, you are."
"You’re seriously pissing me off." I crack my neck.
"You’re pissing on everything we’ve worked on.”
"Don’t be so dramatic." I turn another page.
He grabs the book and tosses it on the table. "Get your head out of your arse for one second."
I tilt my chair back, yawn. "You’re getting on my ass."
"I’ll do more than that if you don’t come clean with me on what’s happening."
"I have it in hand." Right. My heart begins to thud. I fold my palms in my lap. "But since you’ve obviously got a bee in your bonnet about this…" I jerk my chin. "Say your piece or forever hold your piss."
He widens his stance. "This sham of a wedding didn’t convince anyone. Not me, and certainly not her father."
"It was meant to bring old man West out of hiding and into our net, which it has."
He drags his fingers through his hair, then begins to pace. "It’s not enough. You’re the fourth richest man in the country. Your net worth ranks below mine—"
"Hold on a second." I slam my feet on the floor, lean forward. "Last I checked, our net worth was exactly the same."
“That was…" He taps a finger to his chin, pretends to think. "Twenty-four hours ago, before you took your name off ‘the most eligible bachelors in the country’ list."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Only everything?" He chuckles. "You have your head so far inside your arse that you didn’t realize this would have been the perfect occasion to drum up some PR, paint the picture. ‘Most sought after playboy of the decade, settles down, finds his happily ever after.’ Blah, fucking blah."
"Ah." I press my lips together. "Your point being?"
"Not too late. You wanted a simple, romantic, wedding under wraps. You got it. Now throw the press a bone, do a quick briefing, introduce your lovely wife, and launch—"
"FOK."
"FOK, indeed." He widens his stance, props his palms on his hips. "It may work in your favor. The pretense of wanting to keep things private. When they can’t have something, you know how crazy the press gets trying to sniff up a story."
I shuffle around in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position. "What’s in it for you?"
"Launch FOK properly, get all attention on that and your nuptials. It’ll ensure old man West has no reason to doubt the relationship. Then when he’s at ease, we lower the trap."
I chuckle.
Saint nods, "Strip him of all his assets, and then you divorce his daughter."
I can do that much. As long as I don’t get any closer to her. I rub my clammy palms on my pants, "You any closer to breaking up his marriage?"
He rubs his chin, glances at the watch on his wrist. "3, 2—"
His phone buzzes. He flashes me a glance and picks it up. "Hello." He nods, then bares his teeth. "You bet. I’ll meet you at Claridge’s for tea, in an hour." He shoots me a thumbs up sign. "Looking forward."
He slides his phone into his pocket. "See? You can count on me, old sport."
"Stop shittin’ me."
"You’re welcome." He raises his hands. "I only had to intervene to salvage every last tactic in your very sorry plan… Which sucked from the beginning, by the way."
A headache begins to drum at my temples. "Get off my balls, man."
He half bows, "Avec pleasure." He pivots, heads to the door as it’s flung open.
My wife barrels into the room, "Sinclair Amadeus Sterling, you have a bloody nerve."
