The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(90)

Then, when the temptation got to be too much, I snuck off to the restroom, where I called Mira and told her the entire saga… Leaving out the details of what happened last night, that is.

"He did crumple the piece of paper with her phone number on it," she points out.

"For a minute there, I thought he wasn’t going to," I huff.

"He’s married. Of course he would," she says with complete confidence.

Not that it needs to stop him, considering our vows aren’t for real. Not that I’ve told any of my friends, or even Abby, about the fact it's an alliance of convenience—on his part, at least. Funny, how it didn't trigger suspicions. Of course, they don’t know that he made me sign a contract stating that the marriage would last for not less than a year, during which time I'm contracted to stay with him. In return, he’ll pay all of the expenses for my mother’s treatment and stay at the home for the rest of her life. Of course, my monthly allowance is a million dollars. And if I get pregnant within the year, it’s another million. With another two million deposited in my account when the child is born. And then, for each year I stay married to him, I get a million, and for each child I push out, add on another two.

My head spins with all the zeroes that means. I've stopped trying to keep track of it. Also, I refuse to check my bank account because I’m not going to touch a penny of what he’s giving me. The only money I’m going to use is that which my salary as his assistant gets me. One I insisted I draw and which I’m using to pay fifty percent of the rent on Mira’s apartment. This way, I can keep my room there and have somewhere of my own I can go to… If needed.

"Penny, you listening to me?" she asks.

"Of course I am."

"Don’t blame you if you are a little distracted. I would be, too, if I’d spent the first night of my marriage with that irresistible masculine deity."

I laugh. "Haven’t heard that one before."

"That’s because I invented it."

"You did, huh?"

"I’m having my go at writing my own smutty fanfic."

"Ooh, is it Dramione?"

"What else?" she asks with an expression that implies it couldn't it be anything else but.

"I’m so envious you found your Draco. Now, if only I could find mine."

The door opens then, and Giorgina glides in on her six-inch, spiky heels. I glance down at my wedges. Damn. Why is it that I always feel so underdressed in comparison? I cup my palm around my mouth and lower my voice, "Uh gotta go, Bellatrix Lestrange walked in."

"Wh-a-t?" Mira chokes out a laugh. "Do you mean—"

"Yes, can’t talk, bye." I hang up, slide the phone into the pocket of my trusty pink jeans—because yeah, skinny jeans may be passé, but you’ll have to tear mine from my body when I die. Also, I’d paired it with a blazer, so the effect is very much Gen-Z. I wash my hands under the tap, then dry them. When I toss the paper towel into the wastebasket, I turn to Gio. "Hey, what are you doing here?"

"Had a meeting with that prick, Rick." She caps her lipstick and drops it into her handbag, then pauses. “Prick Rick has a certain ring to it, no? Maybe I should call him Prick, instead of Rick.”

I chuckle. “Not sure he’ll like that.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes gleam.

“You don’t like him much?”

“That’s an understatement. I’d have preferred not to have anything to do with him, but I couldn’t get out of this meeting with him and your husband.”

"My husband?" The words are out before I can stop myself.

She glances at my left hand and raises a brow. "Difficult to think of him as that when you’re not sure if he was serious about his vows. Not to mention, it’s the day after your marriage and not only are you back at work, but also you’re in the ladies’ room when, instead, you should be bent over his desk and—"

"Stop right there." I hold my hand up. "What gives you the right to pass judgment on my life?"

"No judgment. But considering your friends can’t see past the assumption that he has feelings for you—which he probably does, but I reserve judgment on that—fact is, you deserve better than how he’s treating you, girlfriend."

My gusts twist, and anger slams into my chest with such force, I gasp. I open my mouth to tell her off, then snap it shut. She’s right. I know she’s right. And only she has the sense to see through the rose-tinted glasses my friends seem to have pulled on. I lean against the counter and stare at my rings.

She blows out a breath. "I’m a bitch; ignore me. I’m also a little emotionally off-kilter, which is no excuse for taking it out on you. It’s me. I’m not good at sugar-coating the truth. And unfortunately, I can see through all the bullshit and cut to the chase and—"

"No, you’re good," I murmur.

She seems taken aback, then nods. "Sorry again, don’t mean to hurt your feelings."

"You didn’t. It’s good to hear someone else say something that everyone else is afraid to say. Or maybe, they just can't see it." I lower my hands to my sides. "What would you do if you were in my shoes?"

She tilts her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I’d march in there and demand he take me on a proper honeymoon, to begin with."