I’m once again very conscious that I’m naked under this bathrobe. But now also that he’s been aware of this the entire time. That somewhere in his shopping expedition, he had to think about what I’d wear beneath my clothes and landed on “bikini” as the least awkward solution.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Sure.” His voice is gruff. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
He bolts out the door before I can ask what he will be waiting for. To chat more? Go somewhere?
I take a second to press the heels of my palms over my eyes. How has this become my life? Then I cross to the armchair and rummage through the bags. The clothes are nice; like his, they fit the golfing aesthetic, but at least nothing is bridal. Liam has included everything: socks, shoes, a jacket, even a small case of cosmetics with basic makeup.
And at the bottom of the last bag, as promised, a bikini. Black with white polka dots. A simple design that’s 100 percent better than going commando. The entire selection is thoughtful. I’m weirdly touched. Then I shake my head, remembering he probably had the concierge pick everything and only made the delivery.
Before I get dressed, I reply to my dad.
Peyton
Thanks, Dad. I’m okay. A friend is helping me out. I’m safe. I might stay away for a bit while I figure things out. Can you email me copies of the papers Matt served you? I’m going to handle it. Don’t worry. Love you.
I can’t tell my parents I’m getting married one day after running out on my previous engagement. Text:Hey, thanks for the support. And by the way, I married a billionaire hotel heirto pay our legal fees. See you at Thanksgiving!They’d think I’ve lost my mind. They’d be right.
To them, Liam has to stay a friend. I’ll tell them I got a job offer to explain the sudden relocation. That’ll buy me time. Then, I’ll introduce Liam as the new boyfriend, and eventually husband. I’ll invent an elopement in a few months. It’ll still look too fast, but at least it’ll be believable. They’ll never find out when or how I got married. They live in a different city and don’t know anyone from Blue Crescent Harbor. I can control the narrative.
My phone vibrates in my hand, making me jump. A picture of Emma and me in college, drunk, wearing plastic tiaras, pops up on screen.
I can shield my parents from the truth, but she’s the one person I can’t hide anything from.
I stare at the green answer button. Confessing to Emma means making it real. Admitting I’m jumping from the VanCamp frying pan into the Rockwood fire.
I let out a long, heavy sigh that deflates my entire body and slide my thumb across the screen.
“Hello?”
11
PEYTON
“Liam is not taking advantage of my fragile mental state,” I say for the twelfth time, pressing the phone harder against my ear. “I’m not impaired, I’m cornered. And it’s my fault for ignoring the signs. I let Matt gaslight me. I did this to myself.”
“The whole concept of gaslighting is that the victim doesn’t realize they’re being gaslighted.”
“But I did on some level. I used to rehearse conversations in the shower. How to bring things up without triggering him. I should’ve left sooner?—”
“None of this is your fault.”
“At least in part it is. Emmy, you tried to tell me. But I kept rolling the ball forward, thinking about everyone who’d already bought flights, booked hotels, cleared their schedules. I let the logistics swallow me, panicked at the last minute, and made everything so much worse. I’ve walked myself into a dead end, and the only way through is with a bulldozer. I’m not letting my parents shoulder the fallout. I’ve looked at this from every angle. To stand up to lawyers who charge two thousand dollars an hour, I need my own billionaire in my corner.”
“Your own billionaire?” Emma’s voice drips with disbelief. “Honey, you’re marrying a guy because he has a nice lawyer and a cool best friend. Do you hear yourself?”
“Lila is great.”
“I’m sure she is. But?—”
“But nothing,” I interrupt. “If people had to judge me through you, I’d be fine with that standard. You’re amazing. So, I must be too.”
My best friend pouts. I can’t see her, but I know the face she’s making right now. “Are you blowing smoke up my ass hoping I’ll forget that you agreed to marry a stranger less than twenty-four hours after fleeing your previous wedding?”
I wince. “Is it working?”
Emma sighs. It’s a long, defeated exhale, the audio equivalent of a white flag. “I hate this—everything about it. But I also despise Matt and his family, and I love you. If this guy can help you, then… ugh. Fine.”