Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 60711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Just the thought of leaving him and never ever seeing him again—
Oh, how strangely unbearable it was!
Tears ran down her cheeks endlessly as she made her way to the door.
For better or for worse...
All she wanted to do was the right thing.
And while her reasons for wanting to marry Paul weren’t completely wrong—
They weren’t completely right either, and that...
That said it all.
I’m sorry, Paul.
He’d probably sue her for this, and she’d probably go to prison for this, too, but—
God wants you to know that He loves you...
She had made a choice.
I’m so, so tired of pretending.
She had made a promise.
And...and she intended to keep it—
I thought I knew for sure that this marriage was what You wanted.
Would rather leave—
But I just don’t know anymore.
Than risk marrying someone God hadn’t chosen for her.
Chapter Eight
“YOU LOOK NERVOUS.”
Paul’s jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze fixed on the door. The door that should have opened by now. The door that Andromeda should have walked through ten minutes ago.
“Don’t you think our friend looks nervous?” Wynd Sullivan directed the question to the man on Paul’s other side, his tone deceptively casual.
Devon Montgomery’s expression turned thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, he does look a lot less confident than usual.” He stroked his chin with exaggerated consideration, clearly enjoying himself far too much, and made a show of checking his watch. “Then again, Andie is taking a while to show up. She could’ve gotten cold feet—”
Paul was halfway to the door before either of them could finish the sentence.
Two pairs of hands clamped down on his shoulders, yanking him back.
“We’re just joking,” Devon said, the bastard actually laughing. “Relax.”
“If she ends up disappearing on me,” Paul heard himself say, his voice low and dangerous, “I’ll kill you both.”
“Strong words,” Wynd observed mildly, “coming from someone who supposedly doesn’t believe in love.”
Paul’s lip curled.
Did they really think he’d fall for that?
Ha!
A whirlwind marriage was out of character for him, he’d give them that.
But it didn’t mean he had completely lost his fucking mind.
Because he hadn’t.
And yes, he did spend the entire night cashing in every favor he’d accumulated over fifteen years of business dealings—all to ensure they’d have an airtight prenup by the time she woke up and could get married right after breakfast.
But it still didn’t mean anything.
He was just...efficient, that was all.
Paul gritted his teeth when he saw his friends exchanging looks.
The kind that only married men seemed to understand even without a word.
And so it was also the kind that he absolutely despised.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Devon answered in a tone that clearly meant everything.
The judge’s chambers were elegantly appointed—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, oil paintings of stern-faced men in robes lining the walls. December light streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air like restless thoughts. A small Christmas tree had been placed in the corner, its lights blinking in a pattern that was starting to give Paul a headache.
Or maybe that was the waiting.
The waiting was definitely giving him a headache.
He tugged at his collar, then caught himself and stopped.
He was not nervous, dammit.
Because there was nothing to be nervous about.
He was Paul Mitropoulos, and he had faced down hostile boards, ruthless competitors, and markets that crashed without warning.
He could handle a wedding.
His own wedding.
To a woman who had somehow managed to upend his entire existence in seventy-two hours.
“So,” Devon said, breaking the silence with the air of someone settling in for entertainment. “You’re sure you’re not in love—”
“Will you quit asking me that?” Paul growled.
“Surely you can see why we find it difficult to believe you,” Wynd drawled. “You’ve only met her three days ago—”
“I just want her that much,” Paul snapped, “that’s it.”
Wynd and Devon exchanged looks again, and Paul was tempted to start cracking his knuckles.
“I’m not the type to lie,” Paul growled.
“I can’t recall either of us implying anything like that,” Devon pointed out in amusement.
“She had conditions,” Paul bit out, “and it included marriage. That’s it.”
Wynd looked at him solemnly. “If I could give you one piece of advice—”
“Keep it.”
“Stop being in denial.”
“I’m not in fucking denial.”
Truly.
This wedding of theirs was him simply agreeing to pay the price of owning her body.
That was it.
This was another marriage of convenience, of billionaires like him entered into marriages of conveniences all the time.
The fact that his chest felt tight every time he thought about her meant nothing.
The fact that he’d invited Star and Wynd specifically because Andie had mentioned finding the Bible meant nothing.
The fact that he’d spent the entire night unable to sleep, his mind replaying every expression that had crossed her face, every sound she’d made, every word she’d spoken—
Wynd and Devon’s phones started buzzing the same time.
Fuck.
Paul started walking.
Fast.
He didn’t have to hear a single word.
He already knew who were calling his friends.