The rest of the day passed in a blur of phone calls. Mary called twice with updates about press management. My father sent me an email with possible venues, none of which I cared about. I caught glimpses of Nita here and there. Each time I tried to catch her eye, she looked away.
By 10 p.m., my mother had had enough of me haunting her estate. "Go," she said, waving a hand as though dismissing a servant. "Go to your own house, Richard. Nita needs space. You're like a hurricane when you're around."
So I left. The night air was crisp as I stepped onto the driveway, the scent of roses from my mother's garden lingering faintly. My car waited a few feet down, the headlights flashing.
Just as Martin opened the driver's side door, my phone beeped. A notification glowed on the screen, the sender's name making my pulse stumble.
Nita: I love your mum more every day. Can she join us on our honeymoon?
I stared at the message on my phone, then burst out laughing so loudly that Martin, gave me a confused look through the rearview mirror. My mother on a honeymoon? God forbid.
Me: You actually think my mum will chase me out after we're married? In three weeks, she'll be requesting grandchildren. She'll want an entire football team of them, and she won't be subtle about it.
It took barely ten seconds before her reply buzzed in.
Nita: Shit!
I could almost picture her wide eyes, the way she'd probably clutched her chest. I smirked. Teasing her was becoming dangerously addictive.
I leaned back in the seat, closing my eyes, trying not to think about how that future didn't sound as absurd as it should have. I wasn't supposed to want that. We had an arrangement. A contract. A show. But her texts, her blushes, her quick temper… every day they chipped away at that line.
*****
The next morning, chaos erupted.
The headlines had spread. The story was plastered across national news channels, financial magazines, and gossip rags alike. Numero heir is getting married! screamed one banner. My office front looked like a zoo.
By 9 a.m., the press had set up camp at the gates, tripods planted as if preparing for war. Reporters pressed up against the barricades, shouting questions about the "mystery bride."
My assistant had to escort our actual clients and personal guests through the private entrance at the back of the building.
Inside, the energy buzzed. Employees leaned close to each other, whispering in corners, phones hidden under desks as they scrolled through gossip blogs. I could feel their eyes following me as I crossed the hallways. To them, their "untouchable" corporate king had suddenly become human—marriage made me real. It made me vulnerable.
Around lunch, just as I was reaching for my phone to order sushi, the doors of my office banged open.
"Richard!"
I groaned inwardly. Perfect timing.
Gwen stormed in, her glossy curls bouncing.
She slammed a newspaper onto my desk.
"Care to explain this?" she snapped, one perfectly manicured nail stabbing at the bold headline: Corporate King Set to Marry Burger Queen.
I glanced at the paper, suppressing the smirk threatening to pull at my lips. The headline was ridiculous, sensationalized to hell and back. Still, seeing Nita reduced to a "Burger Queen" made my chest tighten protectively.
I leaned back in my chair, steepling my fingers, forcing calm. "Explain what exactly? The fact that you still read print newspapers? Very vintage of you, Gwen."
Her nostrils flared. "Don't get cute with me. You're marrying her? That—" she spat the word like it was poison, "fast-food girl? While I—"
"While you," I cut in smoothly, "were never anything more than a… convenient arrangement."
"I had to find out about your engagement from a tabloid? Do I mean that little to you?"
"I am guessing my account balance will be doing the apologizing?" I muttered. "Look, Gwen. My mother arranged the engagement… it's a family thing."
Her eyes widened. "Arranged marriage? That's practically medieval. Do you even hear yourself?"
"You could say that," I sighed. "Can we not discuss personal issues, Gwen? I'll see you during the week. I have a mountain of work to catch up on." My hand went to my forehead, rubbing slow circles against the tension building there.
Her lips pursed into a pout. "Richard, it concerns me too," she pressed. She planted a hand on her hip. "Are you just going to toss me aside after marriage?"
When did I stop caring about Gwen? Just a few days ago, her beauty and sex appeal had been intoxicating, a glittering distraction from my real life. "I don't think so. If things are going to change, I'll let you know."
She studied me for a beat, searching my face for a crack of sincerity, before flashing a coy smile that had fooled half the internet into buying jewelry we didn't even keep in stock. "Alright, sugar. I'll see you." And then, she leaned in and pressed her lips against mine.
The worst possible timing, of course. My office door opened.
And there she was—Nita. My fiancée.
Her eyes flickered to Gwen's hand still resting casually on my chest, to the smudge of lip gloss she'd undoubtedly left on me.
"Hey, hi, Nita," I said quickly. It was a clumsy greeting.
"Hi to you too," she replied coolly. Her eyes flicked to the newspaper on my desk. Her gaze lingered there for an agonizing beat before moving back to me. Nita looked immaculate, clad in tailored pants and a crisp suit jacket that hugged her shoulders. There was a quiet elegance to the way she stood—her spine straight, her jaw set. My mother's touch was all over the outfit; she must have dressed Nita.
But Gwen, never one to let another woman command the room, jumped in with a bright, sugary tone designed to draw all eyes back to her. She extended a hand. "Hi, I'm Gwen. Ex-beauty queen and the face of Numero Jewelleries. You are?" Her smile had enough wattage to power the lobby chandelier, and I could practically hear the invisible drumroll she expected after that introduction.