Page 82 of Fake Dark Vows
“You see, that wasn’t so difficult.” The man shifts into my direct line of vision and lowers his head so that he isn’t towering above me. Even so, I can tell that he is tall, wide-shouldered, his biceps stretching the fabric of his black sweater.
“Where am I?” I demand.
“No, no, no. That’s not how this is going to go. I ask the questions, and you provide the answers. Got it?”
He smiles, creating cute dimples in his cheeks that are at odds with this whole situation. His jet-black hair is slicked back with gel, his olive skin darkened by a layer of designer stubble, potentially Hispanic or of Mediterranean origin. But his eyes are dark and cold.
“Your husband has something that belongs to a friend of mine.”
“M-my husband?”
His expression remains neutral, but his voice is cold. “I’m not here to play games, Rose. Brandon Weiss. Your husband. CEO of Weiss Petroleum, has something that doesn’t belong to him, and I want him to give it back.” He has a slight accent, I realize. European.
“You’ve made a mistake.” My thoughts are frantically trying to escape before this gets out of hand. “He—Brandon—isn’t my husband.”
His lips turn down at the corners as if he’s about to burst into tears. “The rings on your finger tell quite a different story.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I gulp. Why the fuck am I apologizing? “It isn’t real. The engagement. The wedding. None of it is real. I mean, sure, the wedding was real, but we were drunk. We’re not going to stay married. Whatever?—”
His hand grips my chin, and he twists my face sideways so that I’m facing the black curtain. Can I hear noises from behind it?
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You know?” It’s hard to talk when I can’t move my bottom jaw. “Then why?—”
“You can play the happy family for the tabloids; I’m sure his fans will lap it up. But you’re not fooling anyone.”
I don’t move, keep my eyes focused on his.
“I trust you, Rose.”
“I…” I don’t know what he wants me to say. Tears of frustration spill over my bottom lashes and trickle down my face.
“I trust you to do this for me.”
“I don’t think I can.” My voice is barely more than a whisper. “Brandon won’t listen to me.”
“Make him, Rose.” His face is too close to mine. I can see the amber flecks in his eyes, sparking out from the tiny pupils. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”
I clamp my mouth shut. I don’t want to feel his lips on mine or breathe his oxygen—it feels like cheating on Brandon.
“I can’t hear you.” He places his ear against my lips. I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but he’s too strong.
“What do I have to do?” I speak quickly, my lips barely moving, or I’ll never erase his scent from inside my body.
“Ask your husband to return what he stole, and we’re all good.”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“He knows.”
“Who does it belong to? You have to give me more than this.”
“Mr. Valentine.”
The air whooshes from my lungs. Brandon is never going to share the transaction details with me, and even if I could persuade him, he’s not going to accept business advice from a kindergarten teacher.
“I-I can’t do this, I’m sorry. Brandon will want to know why I’m inter?—”