Page 89 of Morally Black Betrothal
Jesus. These reactions, thesefeelingswere all over the goddamn place. This was a business deal. I needed to get a fucking grip before I did something stupid like kiss her again and never let her go.
“There you go.” By some miracle, I fastened the necklace and stepped back.
Simone’s gaze met mine as she pressed the simple pear-shaped pendant against her skin, where it layered over her other chain. Then she put in the matching earrings and went to the small mirror by her front door.
“Wow. Talk about a sparkle.”
They were nothing compared to her. Honestly, she outshone them.Honestly, I preferred her before. Simple. Classic. Simone.
But that wasn’t what a billionaire’s fiancée was supposed to look like, and this wasn’t a real relationship anyway. Simple and classic weren’t what the papers were looking for.
They needed a bit of flash, and there was no time like the present to help her see that.
Even if it meant knowing that today was probably the last time I’d ever see her in this outdated, if very pretty, dress.
“This is very generous of you, Brendan. It’s really not necessary.”
“No, it’s what’s expected.”
Disappointment colored her features, just for a moment.
“Of course,” she replied, then stepped away. “I packed a suitcase.” She gestured toward a small rolling bag near the front door.
I frowned. “Only one?”
It was the size of a carry-on. Maybe a week’s worth of clothing could fit in there. A day’s for some of the women I knew.
“Yeah, I just…” Simone shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how much to bring, honestly.”
“You’ll be with me for four months. I thought you’d have some boxes.”
The softness in her eyes turned to panic. “I, um?—”
I glanced toward the bedroom. “Come on, I’ll help you pack.”
“No, Brendan, it’s not?—”
“What?” I turned back toward her. “What’s wrong?”
She chewed on her lip. “Nothing I have is worth taking. Your, ah, assistant made that perfectly clear this morning.”
I jerked like I’d been slapped, even though it was clearlyherdiscomfort hitting me so hard. “What? Why would you think that?”
She gestured feebly around her. “I—well, look at this place. It’s not exactly the Ritz.”
I did look, but not for long. I didn’t want to see the things she was obviously pointing at. The battered kitchen paraphernalia. The cracks in the walls or the water damage in the ceiling. The faded furniture, the old television, or any of the other things that would eventually make me angry at how unworthy they were of her.
“Everything in here is yours,” I said. “If you want it, it’s coming. If not, I’ll buy you something better.”
“Brendan, it’s not that?—”
“The kitchen stuff can stay—I have everything you could possibly need, including the commercial bread oven?—”
“Okay, but?—”
“Your furniture probably can just go into storage unless you’re attached to anything. Otherwise, I’ll toss my things to the curb?—”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, since my sister is staying?—”
