The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(81)

"It was meant to be," she says in a pleased tone, “and—"

"Ladies, we’re very late." A harried woman in an emerald-green dress hustles in. Rachel’s been a godsend. She worked with Isla on the weddings of the Seven, and the experience shows. She made sure to consult me at every turn, putting together the wedding ceremony and the reception afterward. I told her to do as she pleased, but she insisted on having my input. And now, I’m grateful for it. What if the only wedding in my life is this fake wedding? What if I never find the man who’s supposed to be the one? What if Sir is the one? The band around my chest begins to tighten again, and my head spins. This time, it’s Gio who grips my shoulders. "Woman, you need to go out there and show him he can’t get the better of you."

I swallow.

"You can’t let these men overpower you. You need to show him you have the firepower in you to stand toe-to-toe with him. You need to hold your own and make him respect you. You need to draw the line—here, now, this moment—and show him he’s underestimated you."

I glance between her eyes. Apparently, it took a stranger to read between the lines and realize not everything is as it seems on the surface. It took someone who doesn’t know me to call me on my bluff and tell me I need to stand my ground. To find the courage to go through with this without losing face. To believe in myself. I draw in a shuddering breath, then nod.

"Good.” Her features light up. “Ready to make this wedding your bitch?"





47





Knight





"You’re a bitch," Rick glares at me.

I raise my glass at him then toss back the contents. The whiskey slides down my throat and hits my stomach, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. I slap the empty glass onto the counter of the bar at the 7A Club. It’s midnight, but inside the club, it’s buzzing, men seated in comfortable armchairs with snifters of whiskey in front of them, and half-smoked cigars building ash in between their fingers. The air is thick with the scent of tobacco smoke. No, you’re not allowed to smoke inside, but the douchebag billionaires around me have found a way around the rules. I grab the bottle of whiskey that the bartender helpfully left me and top myself up.

"So you’re getting drunk on your wedding night, is that it?"

"Nope." I shake my head. "I am already drunk." I lie. I’m halfway there, but semantics. I toss back the contents of the glass, this time barely feeling the warmth. I reach for the bottle, but Rick snatches it away. "Gimme that," I growl.

"Not until you tell me why you’re not with your wife on your wedding night."

"Or better still, on your honeymoon," Finn interjects from my other side, and I groan. "The two of you come as a package deal, is that it? Befriend one motherfucker, get two for free, is it?"

"You’re not going to drive us away with your infantile attempts at vexing us," Rick snaps.

"Oh?" I reach for the bottle of whiskey, but he slides it across the counter and to the other side.

"Talk, arsehole, or I’ll rip you another."

"You want me to talk? Fine." I snicker. "How about this? There once was a virile young Viking, whose sexual prowess was striking…"

Finn picks up the thread of my limerick. "He would plunder the asses, of hot Viking lasses…"

I interject with, "Each time he found one to his liking."

He holds up his palm, and I slap it.

Rick glowers at us. "And I thought you were here to knock some sense into his thick skull."

"If you can’t beat 'em." Finn shrugs. "Also, I have a softness—or is that a hardness—for filthy limericks." His grin widens. "How’s this? There once was a maiden from Ealing, who claimed to lack sexual feeling…"

"‘til a fellow named Norris…" I mutter.

"First found her clitoris…" he adds.

The two of us look at Rick with expectation. I’m sure he’s going to snap our heads off then, he blows out a breath. "And she had to be scraped off the ceiling," he says in a droll voice.

Finn barks out a laugh.

I can feel my lips stretch in a smile. I reach across and under the counter to feel around. My fingers brush a bottle. I pull it out. "Vodka, huh?" I uncap it, then swig a gulp straight from the bottle. The alcohol content of this liquor is much stronger. It tastes close to turpentine—expensive turpentine, but turpentine, nevertheless. I swallow, and this time, when the liquid hits my stomach, a ball of heat seems to detonate in my belly. My fingers and toes begin to tingle. Fucking finally.

"There once was a man from Nantucket…" Finn grins.

"Whose dick was so long he could suck it…" I mumble.

Rick reaches for the bottle of vodka I’m holding. I take a sip, then pass it to him. He takes a sip, winces, then rolls his shoulders, before continuing, "He said with a grin, as he licked off his chin, if my—” He hesitates. “Ugh." He frowns. “If my—” His forehead smoothens. “If my ear was a cunt, I would fuck it."

Finn smirks, “Did you forget the ending, old man?"

He narrows his gaze on Finn. "I’m only ten years older than you."