Chapter 1
Imogen
Oakleigh Hall looms before me, vast and imposing in its sheer scale. Most people would probably find it an impressive-looking building, but all I see is a prison, a life sentence hanging over my head, with no early release for good behavior.
Ominous gray clouds hang low in the sky, swollen with rain yet to fall. Despite it being June, a crisp wind rolls across my shoulders. Perhaps it’s because, according to Mom, we’re only about ten miles from the English Channel. Already, I miss the warmth of the California sun. I turn my face up to the sky, as I would if I were at home. The first fat droplet of rain hits my cheek. I wipe it away, returning my gaze to the gloomy mansion before me.
The residence of the powerful De Vil family will never be home to me.
Never.
Except, once I step through those heavy wooden doors, there is no going back.
Then again, there was no going back long before I set foot on English soil for the first time in my twenty-one years. My father sold me to the De Vil family before I was born, signing a contract that would open up supply chains for his business dealings to Europe and beyond. Refusing to marry the eldest son and breaking that agreement isn’t in the cards.
The stakes for my family are too high a price to pay.
You see, the De Vils are one of the most powerful families in the world, with influence beyond most people’s comprehension. If I refuse to go through with this marriage, my dad told me the De Vils will cut him off from his business contacts, and he’ll lose everything. It doesn’t matter how wealthy my father and his family are. They’re small fry compared to the De Vils. It’s a risk I can’t, and won’t, take.
From as far back as I can remember, my parents were upfront about the part I’m expected to play in this trade off they engineered. That didn’t stop me from having dreams of my own, and as time passed and the eldest son of the De Vils didn’t come for me, I began to hope he never would.
How wrong I was. Doesn’t the Devil always collect his prize?
Last Friday, I graduated from college clutching my precious architectural studies degree. It’s usually a four-year course, but my parents paid for extra tuition to ensure I finished it in three. The grades I got were enough to accept a job with one of the top companies in America—a firm I’d spent a couple of internship placements with during my college years. My intention was to train as an accredited architect while gaining valuable on-the-job experience. Except that night, my parents told me something they never had before.
The contract they’d signed included an agreement that the wedding would take place immediately after I graduated.
I’m still not over the shock or the speed of it all. It’s happening so fast that Emma, my best friend, can’t be here to support me as my maid of honor. Nor can any of my other college friends make it. They’re already diving headfirst into their new lives off college campus, either taking a year off to travel, or starting their careers. Mom’s excuse was that she wanted me to enjoy my time at college like any other girl my age, without having the expectation of marriage hanging over my head. It’s a noble reason, but it doesn’t make me any less infuriated that my parents kept such an important detail from me.
My stomach somersaults at the thought of how different my life will now be from that of my friends. How envious I am of them. How that envy curdles in my gut and leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I’m not one to wallow in self-pity, but all that’s run through my mind since Friday night has been a single thought of… why me?
I glance at my father. He catches me looking and pats my hand, as if that will make everything better. It won’t. It doesn’t. But right now, my wants are non-existent. I smile anyway. To him, this marriage is a good thing. A union between Alexander De Vil and me will open even more doors for my father, as well as providing me with a life of privilege and luxury. In return, I’m expected to produce an heir and a spare to continue the De Vil legacy.
That’s their plan.
It isn’t mine.
I may not have a choice other than to go through with the wedding, but I refuse to accept that this is it. That this is my life until the day I die. My brain has been in overdrive for the last five days, trying to find a way out, to prove that I’m not as powerless as I fear I might be.
My father determined my future before I’d taken a single breath, but futures change. Mine will change. It has to. Zenith, the company I intended to work for, has given me three months to accept the job, or they’ll have to offer it to someone else.
There’s only one way for me to get out of this marriage: Alexander De Vil must end it.
And he will.
I’ll make certain of it.
Somehow.
The problem is, I don’t know how to make that happen, and if I can’t come up with a solution soon, I’ll lose everything that matters to me. A chance to make an independent life for myself in a career that means something. That makes a difference in this world.
A man wearing a smart, dark gray suit, white shirt, and green tie opens the imposing front door when we’re still several feet away. He’s balding, but he wears it well. A far younger man scurries past him, beelining for our car. He has the luggage out of the trunk in a flash. I’ve traveled lightly. Most of my stuff is coming next week. The instructions Alexander left with my parents were clear: the De Vils have organized everything for this coming Saturday, including my wedding dress.
“Mr. and Mrs. Salinger.” The elder man bows his head and steps back. “Miss Imogen, please, do come in. Mr. De Vil has instructed I take you straight through to the living room.”
I feel as though someone has dropped me right in the middle of Downton Abbey. Will everyone be this stuffy, or is it just this guy? A shiver runs through me. I’ll be an outsider, a stranger. Will the staff be cold and standoffish? Or will they welcome me with open arms?
Panic rises within me, flattening my lungs. I break out in a cold sweat, the kind that appears right before you’re about to throw up. It’s happening. That thing which has always hovered in the background like an unspeakable secret.
You’re okay, Imogen. You’re a fucking warrior. You’ll survive this. It’s not forever.
It is not forever.
I’ll do whatever needs to be done to make my escape and keep my father in the good graces of the De Vils. After all, if Alexander is the one to end this sham of a marriage, he’ll be the bad guy, and I’ll look like the poor little victim, dumped by her powerful, billionaire husband.
The grand entranceway is possibly the most intimidating space I’ve ever been in. The ceiling must be a hundred feet high, with crystal chandeliers hanging at precise intervals. Ahead, there’s a wide staircase sweeping off to the left and the right. The old, oak chevron flooring looks as if someone got down on their hands and knees and polished it for days. A grand piano sits off to one side, and a crystal vase with white flowers and green foliage proudly rests on top.
“Follow me, please.”
Our greeter—butler?—strides to the grand staircase and sweeps up to the second floor. Mom and Dad follow, gushing about how beautiful the interior of Oakleigh is while asking questions about the hall’s heritage. I trail behind, taking in my surroundings. This isn’t a home. It’s too big, too impersonal, too cold.
A bout of homesickness hits me, and I clutch myself around the middle.
We pass by so many doors and make so many turns, I know I wouldn’t be able to find the exit if someone dropped a billion dollars in my lap and told me to run. Maybe that’s their strategy. Once you’re in here, it’s impossible to find the way out.
Eventually, the guy—I decide to call him the manservant—stops outside a set of paneled double doors made from a dark wood. A black walnut, maybe. He raps twice on the door, then opens them both in a sweeping motion and enters.
“Mr. De Vil. I have Mr. and Mrs. Salinger and Miss Imogen.”
Okay, this Miss Imogen bullshit is going to get old real fast. “Just Imogen,” I mutter before I’ve even set eyes on who is in the room.
Moving alongside my parents, I take a peek. Two men rise to their feet from identical high-backed chairs set on either side of an enormous fireplace. A real fire burns in the grate, even though it’s summer, lending warmth to the room. Unlike the formal, cold entrance hallway, this room is lovely. Light floods in through several large sash windows, despite the gray clouds blanketing the sky, and the furniture isn’t as stark and traditional as what greeted me earlier. It’s cozy, with squishy couches adorned with scatter cushions in bright colors, set around a smoked glass coffee table. In the center of the table is an open box of cigars, although neither man is smoking.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen what Alexander De Vil looks like, but checking out the occasional formal photograph on the internet does not remotely prepare me for meeting the man in person.
His tall, imposing figure and handsome face sucks all the oxygen from the room. He’s dressed in an open-necked, pale blue shirt and dark pants, and his shoes are so highly polished, I bet I could see my reflection in them.
One glance at his father, and it’s obvious where Alexander gets his looks from. Charles De Vil has aged well, with salt-and-pepper dark hair and good looks the passage of time has barely touched. That’s either down to good genes, or he’s got Botox on speed dial.
“Jessica, Scott, welcome to our home.” Charles beams, hand outstretched. He shakes my father’s first, then my mother’s. “I can’t believe it’s taken a wedding to get you here.” He laughs.
As far as I know, we’ve never received an invitation before, but I choose not to bring that up, mainly because I don’t want to embarrass my parents. My father has drummed into me how he expects me to behave.
“And Imogen… my, what a beauty you’ve grown into.”
“Thank you, Mr. De Vil,” I answer in a manner to please my parents.
“Charles, please. After all, you’ll be my daughter-in-law in four short days.”
My stomach tilts. Four days. Ninety-six hours… and three months to make my husband demand a divorce before the one thing I want more than anything else in the world is taken from me.
My eyes drift to Alexander. Unlike his father, he hasn’t moved since he stood. His hands are behind his back, presumably laced together, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking with that blank expression. As if he senses my gaze on him, his eyes meet mine, his stare penetrating.
A shiver runs up my spine. As much as I’ve tried to put on a brave face, if only to convince myself I’ll be fine, one hard glare from my future husband, and I’m overcome with an urge to flee. Screw Daddy, screw Alexander De Vil, and screw the stupid contract my father signed twenty-two years ago.
Except, I can’t. For all I know, Dad could lose more than his business. He could lose his life, too. I don’t know a lot about how it all works, but from what little research I’ve managed to do, the De Vil family belong to a group called The Consortium, along with nine other families from across the globe. I’m unsure what that means in reality, but what I do know is that their power reaches far and wide. If I dig my heels in and refuse to go through with this wedding, Lord only knows what they’ll do to my dad. This family doesn’t operate within the boundaries of the law. It’s the law that operates within their boundaries.
However anxious I am, I’m sticking to the plan. Once the wedding is over and my parents are back home in California, I’ll figure out the right course of action and slowly but surely chip away until he realizes I’m not worth the trouble. At thirty-five, Alexander is a lot older than me. Maybe I can play on the age difference—infuriate him with some childish antics and make him believe I’m too immature for his tastes. It’ll be a lie, of course. My friends often joke that I’m old before my time, but if it helps me to escape this marriage sooner, I’ll play the part of an infantile brat.
Charles places his hand on my lower back and urges me in Alexander’s direction. The introductions are awkward, Alexander’s hand cool as he shakes mine. To think, in a few short days, it’s expected I’ll sleep with this stranger.
I feel sick at the thought.
My parents shake his hand, too, and I can’t help wondering if they’re thinking the same as me and it might give them pause. But one look at their beaming smiles, and that thread of hope snaps as easily as a brittle twig.
“Why don’t we all sit?” Charles gestures to the couch nearest to his chair. “What would you like to drink? Tea? Coffee? A whiskey, perhaps?”
It’s all so… normal. Anyone would think we were here for a regular business meeting rather than engaging in what amounts to little more than my father trading my life for his gain. Harsh, considering I’ve always known this is my fate, maybe, but let’s call it like it is.
“Coffee sounds lovely,” Mom pipes up. “But I’m sure Scott wouldn’t say no to something a little stronger.”
Dad’s easy laugh is a dagger to my heart. I wasn’t sure how he’d react when this day finally came, and I guess a part of me had hoped he’d be a little more… reserved. Instead, he’s practically crawling up Charles De Vil’s ass.
Mom isn’t much better, fluttering her eyelashes at Charles, and giggling as if she’s eighteen rather than forty-four.
But whatever they’ve done, I love my parents. They might have benefitted from this agreement, but they truly believe they’re securing a wonderful future for me by pressing ahead with this marriage.
Charles orders the manservant, whose name I learn is Alan, to fetch the drinks. Meanwhile, I sit in silence, picking at a loose thread on my knee-length, bright yellow dress scattered with blue forget-me-nots. It’s nothing like I’d have chosen to wear if anyone had bothered to ask me. It’s far too bright to suit my mood. Gray would have been better. Or black for mourning.
When I raise my gaze, Alexander’s eyes are on me, his face a blank canvas. Despite my earlier pledge to play the long game, I glower. One side of his mouth curls in to an almost smile.
Or it could be gas. Who’s to know?
Irritated by his continued silence, my promises to play the respectful and compliant fiancée scatter like dust motes in the air.
“So…” I stare daggers at my future husband. “Have you mastered the art of thrilling conversation, or is this performance a special treat just for me?”
Chapter 2
Alexander
My future wife sits primly, her right foot tucked behind the ankle of her left, her knees pressed together, as her parents no doubt drummed into her. She’s resting her hands in her lap, and to those who aren’t paying attention, she’s coming across as the epitome of a perfect, submissive, soon-to-be-bride befitting of the heir to the De Vil Dynasty. Namely, me.
It’s her eyes that give her away.
Behind the dazzling green is a steely defiance as she flicks her gaze to me. Miss Imogen Salinger isn’t the timid soul my father led me to believe she was.
Thank God.
It’ll make this sham of a marriage a lot more interesting if my wife isn’t a doormat. There’s not much fun in a lion playing with a mouse. The kill is over far too quickly. No, much better that my adversary is a lioness, even if she’s pretending otherwise, probably for the sake of her parents.
Her bright yellow dress covered with blue forget-me-nots is all wrong. It’s too innocent. And while her parents have assured my father she’s still a virgin, her virtue is the only thing innocent about her.
Not that I’m interested in taking her virginity. I’ve only agreed to go through with this marriage because it is expected of me. Not only are arranged marriages the norm in my family, but disobeying the head of the household and defaulting on his orders could mean losing our position in The Consortium.
It’s happened before. My father often tells the story of the French Baudelaire family who were evicted from The Consortium because the heir refused to follow his father’s orders. In that instance, it wasn’t in relation to a marriage, but his insubordination showed the head of the household had lost control, and their privileges were revoked. Shortly afterward, another family spotted their weakness, moved in, and the Baudelaires lost everything.
Not all Consortium families follow the tradition of arranged marriages, but it has been that way in my family for a millennium or more. My duty is to comply with this outdated tradition, even if I don’t intend to stay married.
The biggest issue facing my longer-term plans is that my father will never grant me a divorce. Apparently, the only way for me to escape this ill-fated union is for Miss Salinger to end it. And I intend to make sure that she does. I’ll play the game, move the chess pieces until they’re exactly where I want them to be, then bide my time until I get what I want.
Which I will.
There isn’t a doubt in my mind. I’m a winner in whatever challenge I set my sights on. It won’t be easy, but I will emerge the victor from this pointless union. Then I’ll be free to live the life I intended for myself—one of solitude, where I can nurse my grief in peace.
Not that I intend to share any of this with the intriguing Miss Salinger. I aim to make her so miserable, she’ll demand a divorce. From what I know of her, she’s quite the social butterfly. If I isolate her, she will capitulate much faster.
And speed is of the essence. The more time passes without an heir on the way, the greater the chance of my father probing and discovering my wife remains untouched, then demanding answers as to why. I can’t allow this to drag on for months on end, nor will I contemplate the idea of children, no matter what’s expected of me. After what happened to my sister, the idea of having children, of putting them at risk in a world that’s growing evermore dangerous, isn’t something I’m willing to do.
As much as she must think of my family and me as heartless, I do have some sympathy for Imogen’s plight. It can’t be easy for a twenty-one-year-old to be ripped from her home and brought to a foreign country to marry a man she’s never met—one significantly older, with far more life experience. She has no more say in our wedding than I do, and if things were different, that commonality may have given us a level playing field on which to meet. But it’s a moot point, given what I have to do if I’m to force her hand into asking me for a divorce.
I catch her gaze, confrontation swimming in her green irises. A blast of heat in my groin is surprising enough that I shift in my seat. I have a type, and green-eyed, redheaded, curvy women are it. My father couldn’t have known that’s how Imogen would turn out when Scott Salinger signed over his daughter’s future to me before she was born, but all I can think is : Bravo, Father. Bravo.
The beginnings of a smile pull at my lips. Another surprise. Usually, I find a scowl comes so much easier. Imogen glares at me, the intensity one of a woman who’d like to get her hands on a dagger and drive it through my heart. The thought of her trying is something of a turn on.
I’d like the opportunity to subjugate her.
“So,” she says, fire shooting from her eyes. “Have you mastered the art of thrilling conversation, or is this performance a special treat just for me?”
My father chokes on his whiskey. Jessica, Imogen’s mother, looks as though she might faint, and Scott’s face blooms with color.
“Imogen! Apologize to Alexander. Right this second.”
I direct my attention toward her, curious how she plans to handle this. An apology doesn’t interest me, but her reaction to her father’s demand does.
Rather disappointingly, she lowers her chin to her chest, the fire that had enchanted me perishing beneath Scott’s scolding.
“I apologize unreservedly.” She refuses to meet my gaze. “That was rude and unnecessary.”
I say nothing. Fiddling with the cuff on my shirt, I run my thumb over the family crest and my initials stitched into the fabric, my eyes not leaving her for a second as I wait for her to look at me.
When she doesn’t, I intervene. “I’d like to talk to Imogen.” I pull my gaze away from her and settle my attention on my father. “Alone.”
He smiles, pleased at my request. “Of course.” He gets to his feet and motions for Jessica and Scott to do the same. “Good idea to leave them to get acquainted without us breathing down their necks.”
Imogen’s mother kisses her cheek, and her father squeezes her shoulder. It looks more like a warning than a supportive gesture. After her unauthorized outburst, I’m not surprised. I’d wager he’s made her practice how to behave at our initial meeting a hundred times over the last five days.
As soon as the door closes, Imogen shifts her gaze to me.
I run a finger along my bottom lip, appraising her as she, in turn, appraises me. Neither of us speak, though I know she’ll break first. I’m an expert in the art of silence.
Give the girl her due, she lasts approximately sixty seconds. That’s more than most people manage in my company.
“Why didn’t you want to meet me before now?” Her opening gambit isn’t the question I expected, although I’d have put it in the top five.
“What was the point?” To me, it seemed futile to go through the charade of meeting ahead of schedule, as though this were a normal relationship. A waste of time if you will. A senseless endeavor that wouldn’t change anything.
Her eyes flare, her forehead wrinkling. “Wow. How charming.”
“If you’re looking for charm, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Clearly,” she mutters.
I rise from my chair and help myself to a cognac. After taking a sip, I let the burn slide down my throat, and return to my seat, crossing my legs. “Miss Salinger, let me be clear. My family expects me to marry, and my father has chosen you as my bride. But if you’re looking for a fairy tale…” I trail off.
“I’m not looking for a fairy tale,” she snaps. Standing, she goes over to the drinks cabinet and snatches up a bottle of gin. “Nor am I expecting a gentleman. Which, considering your behavior, is just as well.” Turning her back on me, she makes herself a G and T.
I’m… impressed. There aren’t many people in my life willing to stand their ground. A powerful name like De Vil usually garners respect and, in some cases, fear. At the very least, a desire to tread carefully.
“I’m glad we understand each other.” I knock back my cognac and set the glass on the coffee table. Lacing my fingers together, I wait for her next comeback. I’m rather enjoying the exchange.
She breathes out a heavy sigh. “Okay, couple of things. One, don’t call me Miss Salinger. If you do that after we’re married, you’re going to look like a complete weirdo. Two, as hard as it might be for you, at least try to see this from my point of view. I’m the one who’s had to leave my home behind. I’m the one who’s had her dreams tossed into the trash. I’m the one having to make all the sacrifices. I’m alone here, whereas nothing has changed for you. The least you can do is try to be civil.”
Further evidence that isolation is the right approach to put a speedy end to this marriage. “I thought I was being civil.”
She looks at me as if she might kill me. My groin heats again, and I adjust my position.
“Oh, my God. You actually believe that, don’t you?” She massages her temples as if to stave off an oncoming headache. “We should at least try to get to know each other a little before the wedding.”
“Why?”
Her impatience with me goes from about a three to one hundred in the time it takes her to blink. “Jesus Christ.”
Her lips purse, and she wrings her hands. Although, if I had to guess, she’d rather wring my neck. This initial meeting isn’t going as I thought it would, and I couldn’t be happier about it. If I’d known she was this feisty, I might have changed my mind and met her before today. It’s so boring when people grovel, fawn, and bootlick. Forcing her hand into demanding a divorce will be the most fun I’ve had in a long while, especially as fun isn’t a concept I’m all that familiar with.
“Do you like coffee or tea?”
I arch a brow. “Neither.”
Her eyes close slowly, and she takes two deep breaths. “What do you like to drink?”
“Water. Cognac.” I point my chin at the empty brandy glass on the table.
She pauses, as though she’s waiting for me to ask her the same question. I don’t. After a few seconds, and the merest shake of her head, she hits me with her next fascinating question.
“What do you like to do in your free time?”
“I don’t have any free time.”
Smoothing both her eyebrows at once, she presses her fingertips to her temples again. “Work with me here.”
“I am. You’re asking me questions, and I’m answering them.”
“You are aware you’re behaving like a complete jackass, yes?”
I get to my feet once more and swipe my empty glass off the table. With my back to her, I pour another drink. After corking the bottle, I bring the glass to my lips and slowly pivot, replying with a question of my own—one laced with sarcasm.
“What do you like to do in your spare time… Imogen?”
She takes a moment to answer, as though she’s carefully weighing my question. “I like to spend time with my friends, although that’s been curtailed somewhat by recent events.”
A wave of sadness rolls across her face, but she pulls herself together a second later. Her melancholy further cements my decision that isolation is the right approach.
“I also like to draw. I majored in architectural studies.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
I keep it to myself that my curiosity eventually got the better of me, leading me to attend her graduation last week to watch her from the back of the room, right before I visited her parents and invoked the relevant clause in the contract. She’d graduated, with honors I might add, and that made her my property. For now.
Another bout of sadness bows her shoulders. “I was supposed to start a job with one of the biggest architecture firms in America. Then you arrived and stole my dream from me. My parents tell me I’ll be too busy being a wife to work.” She almost spits the word wife.
I mold my expression into one of indifference, but file away her admission for possible future use. If working for this firm is her dream, then maybe if I regularly remind her of what she’s lost, it might just force her hand into leaving me.
Returning to my chair, I take a few moments to study my future wife. If I were in the market for a long-term commitment and wrote out the characteristics of my perfect woman, she’d be it. She’s smart, fearless, with hair the color of autumn leaves, vibrant green eyes, and a body made for a man’s hands to explore. Not to mention the stubborn jut to her chin that makes her a worthy adversary.
“What else do you want to know?” I ask her.
A gentle headshake signals her surrender. “Nothing. Like you said, why bother?” Rising to her feet, she rubs her lips together. “I’m going to go find my parents. I presume that’s all right with you?” Though she’s not asking me for permission. She’s testing me.
“My exact words were ‘what’s the point’, not ‘why bother’,” I remind her.
A flush blooms in her cheeks, and her hands curl into fists. “Jackass,” she hisses before spinning on her heel and marching across the room.
To her credit, and my surprise, she doesn’t slam the door.
Chapter 3
Imogen
My phone lights up, buzzing simultaneously. I reach for it, a pang of homesickness hitting me at the sight of Emma’s name on the screen. Swiping up, I read her text.
Emma: You didn’t let me know you’d arrived okay. SMH, Salinger.
In spite of my low mood, I smile. Emma and I met the first year of college and became fast friends from day one. She was the first person I called after my parents told me about the wedding. If anything, her shock was greater than mine. I’d never mentioned my intended future to her, nor to my other college friends—partly because I convinced myself it wouldn’t happen.
Then, it did.
Me: I arrived okay.
Emma: You’re such a dick.
Emma: How are you doing? What’s he like?
Me: I’m fine. He’s… a jackass.
Emma: *Sad face emoji* I’m so sorry, Immy. I wish I could help.
Me: It’s fine. I have a plan. Sort of. It’s a work in progress.
Emma: Well, if you need ideas, I’m your girl.
Me: I might just take you up on that.
Me: Did I tell you Zenith gave me three months to accept their offer?
Emma: No, you didn’t. Why the deadline?
Me: That’s when the project starts, and they want the full team in place by then.
Me: Which means I have three months to make him divorce me.
Emma: Can you even get divorced that quick?
Me: This family can make anything happen if they want it badly enough. A separation will do. I just need him to tell me to leave, and I’ll have my bags packed within ten seconds flat.
Emma: Always here for you, Immy. Love you.
Me: Love you.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table and stare at the ceiling. I’m not remotely tired, despite the late hour. My brain simply won’t shut up. Heaving myself off the couch, I stuff my feet into my sneakers and head into the dimly lit hallway outside the rooms the De Vils have allocated to my parents and me.
My heartbeat pitter-patters like a spider scuttling over polished parquet flooring wearing tap shoes as I creep through the hallowed hallways of Oakleigh. I keep my eyes peeled and my ears cocked for any sign of footsteps, but the only sound is the rush of blood racing through my ears. Ominous pictures of what I presume are De Vil ancestors glare down at me from their places on the walls, their eyes following me, judging me.
Alexander has been noticeably absent since our prickly exchange yesterday. When he didn’t turn up to dinner last night, his father made some excuse about work. Suited me. The guy’s stunning to look at, but a complete asshole. He’s also cool as a spring shower, and completely indifferent to my attempts to rile him. I have a horrible feeling getting this divorce won’t be as simple as I’d hoped. However difficult it is, though, I have to make it happen. Even the thought of failure curdles my stomach. I cannot bear to think of this as my life, with no purpose other than being a brood mare and a trinket on a powerful man’s arm.
It’s not that I don’t want kids; I do. Someday. But not like this. Not with him.
I climb the stairs to the top floor and turn right. This looks vaguely familiar, and when I reach a door at the end, I remember why. Charles gave me and my parents a tour of the mansion after dinner last night, and he mentioned that each floor has a panic room. Although he was quick to point out there had never been cause to use them. He went on to say that this panic room is one that Alexander and Nicholas share, as they occupy this level of the house. Apparently, if the alarm sounds, this is where I am to go.
Reversing course, I head past the staircase in the other direction. Voices drift toward me, masculine and deep, and I skirt along the wall like an interloper. I have every right to go wherever I choose. I’m not a prisoner, and no one told me any areas of Oakleigh are out of bounds. I have a niggling worry about getting lost, but if I do, I’ll curl up on a couch in one of the countless rooms this house seems to have and wait until morning when the staff is up and about.
On the balls of my feet, I creep closer to the sound, curiosity pulling me along as if it’s woven into the fabric of my being. The smell of cigar smoke tickles my nostrils, and a triangular shard of light coming from a room a few feet ahead on the left shines up the wall. I pause on the periphery and peer inside.
Alexander sits alone on a couch at one end of a low table loaded with drinks and snacks, nursing an empty glass. His siblings lounge on two adjacent couches, one of them puffing on a cigar.
I hold my breath, intending to eavesdrop on their conversation, even though I shouldn’t. Mom used to tell me eavesdroppers don’t hear anything good about themselves, but as they appear to be discussing a win on a horse race, I think I’m safe.
Until I hear my name.
“You landed on your feet with Imogen.” I think that’s Christian, the third eldest brother. It’s hard to tell from this angle. I only briefly met them last night, and I was still too annoyed at Alexander to pay much attention.
“You marry her, then,” Alexander says in that cool, bored manner of his.
“Hard pass.” Christian laughs. “I’m not in the market for a wife anytime soon. With a bit of luck, by the time you and Nicholas have done your civic duty, Dad will have so many grandbabies puking on his Amosu suit, us three will get a pass.”
“Amen to that,” Tobias says. I know that’s him. He made an impression on me because he had the kindest eyes, and he bothered to ask how I was.
Alexander’s glower could strip paint off the walls, but his siblings don’t seem at all concerned by his fisted hands or the vein bulging in his forehead. Saskia, the only woman, and from what I’ve seen, my only hope of a friend, leans forward and snags an olive from the table, popping it into her mouth.
“Yeah, Xan. We’re relying on you and Nicholas to take the heat off us.”
Xan? For some reason, I’m surprised by the nickname. It’s too… casual. Then again, these are his siblings. As an only child, I have no direct frame of reference, but a few of my friends at college had nicknames for their siblings. Emma calls her older brother Einstein on account of how clever he is and how easily he aced college, whereas she had to work her backside off to get the grades she needed to land a good job in journalism.
“I figure a forty percent hit rate should satisfy Dad and his obsession with duty and tradition for a good few years,” Saskia continues, reaching for another olive.
“It won’t.” Alexander gets to his feet and crosses to a drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. He refills his glass and returns to his seat, but as he does, his gaze falls on the doorway where I’m hiding. I whip out of sight, my breath clogging my throat, goosebumps flaring along the back of my neck.
He didn’t see me. He didn’t. He can’t h—
“Imogen.” He sounds as indifferent as ever, but he’s busted me, and there’s no point in pretending he didn’t catch me listening in on their private conversation.
I peer around the door. Greeted by five pairs of eyes, I give a half grimace, half grin. “Hi. Having a party?”
“Yes,” Alexander says before any of his siblings can get a word in. “A private one.”
“Oh, Xan, don’t be such an arsehole.” Saskia beckons to me, then pats the space on the couch next to her. “Come and join us, Imogen. It’ll be nice to have another girl to dilute some of the testosterone. It’s important we get to know our future sister-in-law.”
Alexander’s cold stare is meant to force me to decline. Too bad. In fact, doing the opposite of what he wants is a good way to piss him off and nudge him in the direction I want him to go. Namely to the divorce courts. Thrusting up my chin, I square my shoulders, tug down the sleeves of my sweater, and stride into the room as if I belong here.
“Thank you, Saskia.” I sit beside her. “I’m sorry to crash the party. I couldn’t sleep, and then I heard voices.”
“Your suite is nowhere near here.” Alexander’s eyes narrow as he returns to his chair.
“I’m aware,” I hit back, narrowing my eyes, too.
The brother sitting opposite—the one smoking the cigar—lets out a low chuckle. “Boy, oh boy, Xan.” He raises his glass to me. “This will be fun to watch.”
“Fuck off, Nicholas.”
Saskia tuts. “For goodness’ sake, it isn’t a sport. It’s a wedding. A cause for celebration.” She twists her body, giving Alexander her back. “Ignore my brothers. They’re little more than Neanderthals.”
“Hey!” Tobias pipes up. “Not all of us. Just those three.”
Saskia ignores him as though he hasn’t spoken. “Must be something in the genes of men that makes them behave like children even when they’re old enough to know better.” Wafting her hand in the air, she adds, “Will one of you kindly get Imogen a drink? What will you have?”
“Oh, no, I’m okay. It’s late, and I’m not a big drinker, anyway.”
“You downed that gin and tonic fast enough yesterday,” Alexander mutters.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to blast a heated comeback, but Saskia gets there first.
“Shut the fuck up, Xan. What the hell is wrong with you? Whatever your problem is, shake it off. Your issues are nothing to do with Imogen.”
A scowl etches across his face, and he rises to his feet. “I’m going to bed.”
An urge to apologize for ruining their evening is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. I’m not the one who ruined it. Alexander is. It’s clear to me he doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do. We’re both trapped. Him, I guess, by duty. Me by a contract my father signed long ago. In other circumstances that kind of common ground would act as a building block toward the future, but I have no intentions of spending my future with this man.
“I should go, too,” I say after Alexander has stomped off. “I shouldn’t have gatecrashed.”
“Nonsense,” Saskia says. “I invited you to join us.”
Tobias leans forward and pats my knee. “Exactly. Don’t let his bad mood get to you.”
“If it helps,” Christian says, “I hear you more than held your own. Not just now, but yesterday, too. Not many people can say that about an altercation with Xan.”
I shrug one shoulder. “It’s okay. They make us tough in California.”
The chatter swirls around me, filled with in-jokes or business talk I don’t understand, but despite that, it’s sort of comforting, so I stay. I’ll take any kind of social interaction I can get. One by one, the De Vil siblings drift off until there’s only Saskia and me left. I get the feeling she planned it this way, although I didn’t see her give her brothers any kind of sign. But as soon as they’re gone, she shifts her position, raising one knee up onto the couch, her attention fully on me.
“How are you doing?” Her kindness is both unexpected and enormously welcome. I have to blink back a raft of tears that threaten to pour down my cheeks, and I’m not even that much of a crier. It’s the shock, that’s all. It’s all happened so fast, and I didn’t get time to prepare.
“I’m… okay.” I grimace. “It’s not as if I didn’t know this was coming.” Just not on the same day I graduated.
“Knowing something in the abstract,” she circles her hand in the air, “and having it actually happen to you are two completely different things. You’re allowed to feel angry, upset, confused, irritated, or any other emotion that bubbles up inside you.” She pops another olive into her mouth before tossing the cocktail stick onto the coffee table. “Hell, I know when my time comes, I’ll have all those feelings and more.”
“Will it? Come for you, I mean? I heard you guys talking earlier, and it sounded as if your elder brothers might fall on their swords, so to speak.”
“Oh, it’ll come. Arranged marriages aren’t only common in my family, they’re the only way any of us marry. It’s the way things are. I’m okay with it, depending on who Dad picks.”
She twists her lips to one side, her acceptance something to admire, if not one I mean to adopt. I have no intentions of sitting idly by and accepting my fate. Three months. That’s my target. If he doesn’t ask for a divorce by then… I’m not sure what I’ll do. Beg Zenith for an extension maybe? Or search around for a company with similar values and a project portfolio aimed at improving our world, not destroying it, as a lot of companies seem hell bent on doing.
“My advice, for what it’s worth, is to make a life for yourself here that’s more than your place as Alexander’s wife. Take walks in the countryside, bird watch, learn archery, photography, go horse-riding.”
It’s hard to ignore the fact she doesn’t say create a social circle, but I park that for now and focus on the first piece of good news I’ve had since I arrived. “You have horses?” Along with my love of architecture and drawing, horses are my jam. I used to ride a lot when I was younger, although I haven’t for a while. College work and socializing have kept me pretty busy.
“Oh, yeah. Lots. Dad owns several racehorses, although we have some regular horses, too. We all love to ride. I first got on a horse when I was…”—she wrinkles her nose—“two or three, maybe. Mum taught me.” Pain washes across her face, and she looks away, takes a few seconds to collect herself, then returns her attention to me. “Do you ride?”
I nod, taking her lead that talking about her mom is painful and not a subject she wants to discuss. “It’s been a while, and I can’t ride English style, but I’ve always loved horses, and they love me.”
“You should have Alexander teach you.”
I can’t help the laugh that climbs up my throat. “I’ll have to get him to talk to me first.”
She shakes her head. “My brother is—”
“Don’t say complicated. That’s what assholes use as a get out of jail free card.”
A grin spreads across her face. “You’re going to make a fine match for my brother, Imogen, even if you don’t yet realize it. No, what I was about to say was he has his demons like many of us. Just give him a chance to show you the real him.” I stay silent, and she chuckles. “Fair point, considering how he’s behaved since you got here.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Your silence said it all.” She yawns, stretching her arms overhead. “Think it’s time for me to turn in.” Unexpectedly, she kisses me on the cheek and briefly hugs me. “Welcome to the family, Imogen.”
Left alone, I stare into the distance. Maybe it won’t be quite so bad being here after all. The rest of the De Vil family seems nice, although all the guys are a little intense. Except maybe Tobias. He’s… different. And Saskia is lovely.
The onset of a headache makes me finally get up. I need sleep, and I won’t get it lying here all night. I hope I can find my way back to our suite. The hallways are dimly lit, but there’s enough illumination for me to see where I’m going. If I remember correctly, I took a left, then a right, and one flight of stairs to get here, so if I do that in reverse, I should be okay. That will bring me to the correct floor, at least. From there, I should be able to find our rooms.
Before I get to the stairs, though, another light and ajar door piques my interest. I peer inside to what looks like an office. Alexander is sitting behind an imposing desk, his head bent, a pen in his left hand flying over the pages. Seconds later, he sets down the pen and leans back in his chair. Blowing out a steady stream of air, he closes the book, picks it up, and slides it onto a shelf behind him, which houses rows upon rows of identical books. Locking the cabinet, he returns to his seat and opens a laptop.
Is that…? Does…? Does he journal?
I’ve dabbled with journaling myself, but I can’t say I’m committed to the cause. But Alexander most definitely is if the sheer number of identical notebooks is anything to go by. Goodness, he must have been journaling for years and years to fill that many pages. Maybe there is more to this guy than just a pretty face and a chilly demeanor. If he journals then he must have some feelings, and that’s perhaps his way of expressing them.
“Is voyeurism a kink of yours, Imogen?” His unexpected question startles me. I step back, out of sight, even though it’s too late for me to hide. Holding my breath, I wait for him to say something else, but he’s silent. I creep forward again, peering around the door. He lifts his head, one eyebrow arched. “Well?”
“No… I mean… I didn’t mean to. I was on my way to bed.”
“Then, I suggest you continue.” He returns his attention to his laptop.
I sigh, then push open the door fully. “Look, Alexander. You’re clearly not happy about this wedding, and neither am I. There isn’t anything we can do about it, though, is there? So, what do you say to some kind of truce?”
“I wasn’t aware we were at war,” he replies in that clipped English tone of his.
There’s something about that accent that makes me feel as if I’m being scolded, and it irritates me enough that I fist my hands. Squaring my shoulders, I draw myself up to my full five feet eight inches.
“Well, you’re doing a mighty fine job of firing missiles.”
A muscle feathers his cheek, and his amber eyes stare at me for a few seconds. They’re so entrancing that I stare right back. He’s the only one of his family to have that color of eyes. The rest are shades of brown, like his father’s. Alexander must get his eye color from his mother.
Eventually, he blinks. “Go to bed, Imogen. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
He turns his back on me, his dismissal cold and unnecessarily cruel. I rack my brains for something equally horrible to say, but come up empty.
I pivot and return to the hallway, leaving him alone.
Chapter 4
Imogen
Many girls dream of the perfect wedding day: the dress, the flowers, the exquisite church, and horse-drawn carriage. The perfect groom with hearts in his eyes, waiting to whisk you into your new life. Children living out their fantasies by hanging pillowcases off the backs of their heads while they prance around in their mom’s shoes.
I did the same. Even though I’ve always known my future husband wouldn’t be one of my choosing, I fantasized about him being a white knight who was as excited to marry me as I was to marry him. On the few occasions my parents mentioned Alexander, which wasn’t often, they’d speak about him in reverent terms, as if he was some kind of god.
Alexander De Vil isn’t a god. He’s the Devil dressed in a sharp suit.
His cold brushoff when I interrupted him in his study on Thursday night has played on my mind. I’m mad I let him dismiss me so easily without fighting my corner, especially considering I have to make him despise me enough to want to rid himself of me. He kept true to his word, though. I haven’t seen him since, and soon, I’ll walk down the aisle to marry a stranger, who’s as reluctant for this union as I am.
I may have come here with a plan to get out of this marriage as fast as possible, but it’s going to take huge amounts of time and energy to battle constantly with my husband.
Maybe he’ll cave after a week.
I bark out a laugh. Somehow, I can’t see it.
“What are you laughing at?” Mom appears from the dressing room with my wedding dress draped over her arms—yet one more thing I didn’t get to choose. The De Vils have organized everything, with no input from me. The lack of involvement has made me feel so distanced from this charade of a marriage, and so isolated, not just from everything familiar to me, but from this new life, too. Even though I don’t want to marry Alexander, a part of me is still that little girl who dreamed of the fabulous wedding.
“My future husband.” It’s an honest answer.
“He’s not here, is he?” Mom’s head whips left and right. “Because he can’t see you before the wedding. It’s bad luck.”
I laugh again, this time with more humor than bitterness. “Mom, I’m marrying a man who doesn’t even like me. I don’t think him seeing me in my dress will make much of a difference.”
Her lips pinch, and she narrows her eyes. “Imogen, he doesn’t know you.” She plucks a strand of hair off my shoulder and lets it fall to the floor. “It was the same for me when I married your father. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but I’ve had twenty-four of the most wonderful years with him. My only regret is that we didn’t have more children. Still, we’ll have grandchildren soon, won’t we?”
She frames it as a question, but it isn’t one. It’s an expectation, although how I’m going to stop Alexander from having sex with me without protection isn’t something I’ve worked out yet. Maybe I’ll tell him I have syphilis or chlamydia or something. Or I’ll tell him I’m on my period and get myself to a doctor as soon as possible to organize contraception. Unless he’s into period play. I’ve read romance books that include men who like that kind of thing.
Quit it, Imogen. You’re overthinking.
“Once you’re married, everything will change,” Mom says. “Trust me.”
Yeah, things will change all right. I’ll hopefully be on my way to being a divorcee by the time I hit twenty-two in August.
“Now,” she continues when I say nothing. “Let’s get you into this dress and down the aisle.”
I can’t deny the dress is beautiful, and I look beautiful in it. A luxurious silk gown with thin shoulder straps and a cowl neckline whispers past my curves before falling to the floor with a flare. It’s sophisticated, classy, and probably the choice I would have made for myself if I had been given the chance to pick my own gown.
“Oh, Imogen.” Mom stands back and presses a hand to her chest, her eyes misting as she runs her gaze over me. “You look like an angel. Doesn’t she, Maisie?”
Maisie is the maid the De Vils assigned to me. She’s a sweet girl, but a little too formal. I’m hoping I can loosen her up a bit.
Maisie nods. “A real angel, Miss Imogen.”
An angel marrying a devil. It’d be funny if it wasn’t true.
Briony, my hair and makeup artist, approaches me with a can of hairspray. “One more spritz for the road?” She doesn’t wait for my approval before enveloping me in a haze of sickly-smelling hairspray.
I close my eyes as tiny droplets land on my shoulders. My auburn hair is piled on top of my head, with ringlets caressing my neck. I look pale, my eyes luminous, and even though it’s warm in here, my skin is covered with goosebumps.
Drawing in a deep breath, I take the bouquet of cream and red roses from Maisie and turn my attention to Mom, my heart galloping faster than a racehorse sprinting across the finish line. I’m putting on a brave face, for me as much as them, but inside, I’m scared of what’s ahead of me.
“Tell Dad I’m ready.”
Mom presses her fingertips to her lips, blows me a kiss, then goes outside to get Dad. He returns with her, and when he sees me for the first time, he freezes on the spot.
“Doesn’t she look beautiful, Scott?” Mom prompts when he doesn’t say a word.
“Yes, beautiful.” His voice is husky and broken, and for a few seconds, I pretend this isn’t an arranged marriage, and that the man waiting for me at the chapel is my soul mate.
“Shall we go?” Dad sticks out his arm. “We don’t want to keep Alexander waiting.”
And just like that, reality smashes my illusion to smithereens.
“No,” I murmur. “We wouldn’t want to do that.”
My sarcasm is lost on Dad. He beams at me, ushers Mom, Maisie, and Briony from the room, then leads me into the hallway.
The chapel is on the Oakleigh estate, but it’s far enough away from the main house that there are two cars waiting outside the front entrance to drive us there. Mom gets in the one in front, and it drives away. Dad and I get into the second one. As the door closes with a thud, my heart thuds, too.
It’s not forever. It’s not forever.
Stick to the plan.
Dad squeezes my hand, and I respond with a wavering smile. Five minutes later, the car pulls up outside the chapel. It’s the first time I’ve seen it, and it’s nothing like I imagined. I’d pictured a quaint little place that might seat twenty or thirty people.
I estimate five hundred could fit in here and still leave room for more.
Swallowing, I wait for Dad to help me out of the car. God, I wish Emma was here supporting me. If we’d been given more notice, she might have been able to make it, but she’s already started her new job working for a local paper in Bakersfield. Asking for time off wouldn’t exactly endear her to her new boss. Same with my other friends. No one could make it with only five days’ notice.
My chest pangs. I should be working for Zenith now, excited to throw myself into my fledgling career. Especially as they’d told me they were going to assign me to the project team working to design and build a prototype low-cost, sustainable village in Malawi. One that, if successful, could be replicated throughout Africa. To be a part of something that aims to make the world a better place is a dream come true.
Was a dream come true, until Alexander De Vil came for me.
I’m alone here. All alone. And when Mom and Dad return to California, my isolation will be complete. Somehow, I have to make friends. I cannot spend the time I’m here without a circle of girlfriends to keep me company. Perhaps Saskia can introduce me to some of her friends. Either way, the thought of the next three months on this vast estate with no one but myself and, God help me, Alexander for company fills me with horror.
“Ready?” Dad asks as we approach the entrance.
I set the melancholic feelings aside and force a smile for my father’s benefit. “Yes.”
The music strikes up as we enter. Rows upon rows of strangers twist in their seats, craning their necks to get a look at the future Mrs. Alexander De Vil. The place is packed, and my guess of five hundred was a vast underestimation. There must be seven or eight hundred people here at least.
As I keep in time with Dad’s steps, I can’t help wondering if they all know this is a sham. I want to scream it from the rooftops, especially when people smile at me as if they know me, as if this is the best day of my life, when the truth is, it’s the worst.
My gaze falls on Alexander first and then Nicholas standing beside him as his best man. Both men are dressed in dark blue morning suits—a British tradition, I’m told—the coat tails hanging down to the backs of their knees.
Nicholas turns toward me, but Alexander continues to face away, his posture rigid as if his spine were made of steel. Nicholas nudges his brother, and his lips move, although I can’t make out what he’s saying. Whatever it is, it doesn’t change Alexander’s position in front of the altar.
Despite my bravado at our previous meetings, my knees knock as I cling to Dad’s arm, the attention of all these people making me more uncomfortable than I’ve ever been in my life.
Dad pats my hand as we approach, then leaves me standing beside Alexander, and takes a step back. I risk a glance up at my future husband, but he doesn’t afford me the same courtesy. His eyes are facing forward, and his hands are loose by his sides.
“You look… nice.” He mutters the words out of the corner of his mouth, and at first, I’m not even sure it’s him who’s spoke.
“How would you know?” I reply in a voice low enough that only he’ll hear me. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head?”
He looks at me then, and I wait for him to show some kind of emotion. I’d even take annoyance, irritation, or rage. Anything would be better than what he gives me: indifference.
“I have eyes everywhere. You’d do well to remember that.”
Facing forward once more, he nods at the minister, who takes his cue and begins his spiel.
I don’t even listen. What’s the point? Someone will nudge me when it’s my turn to say or do something. My eyes glaze over. I pretend I’m an actress—although I can’t act worth a dime—and this is a movie set. Once it’s over, I get to go home, where I belong.
Alexander’s cool fingers wrapping around mine jerks me from my daydream. My eyes widen, and I automatically tug to free myself. He grips me harder.
“Rings,” he hisses.
Oh. We’re at that part already? Does that come before the “I do” part in England? Maybe I should have read up on wedding etiquette or something. Perhaps I would have if I’d been given more of a warning.
The minister reads my vows, and I repeat them, my voice as wooden as the benches the guests are sitting on. The wedding band feels odd—heavier than I expected. While it’s silver in color, with a few diamonds set into the metal, I imagine it’s white gold, maybe platinum. I didn’t get an engagement ring, so I wasn’t able to get used to wearing something around my finger.
Alexander lets go of my hand and holds out his own. Nicholas extends a small cushion toward me, a thick silver band sitting on top.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up, and I almost drop it. I slide it onto the third finger of Alexander’s left hand, wondering if he had the same thoughts as me over the foreign object.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the minister says with a beaming smile. “You may kiss the bride.”
Alexander turns to me, and I raise my chin, readying myself for something dismissive, for the sake of appearances. Instead, his large hands cup my face, his thumbs angling me to his satisfaction. When his lips press against mine, I freeze. I’ve only been kissed twice before, both times in college, and my recollections are that it was wet, sloppy, and not all that enjoyable.
But Alexander’s kiss is nothing like those. It’s gentle at first, coaxing almost. My lips tingle as though I’ve eaten chili sauce, and a warmth ignites in my belly, spreading outward until my entire lower half is aglow. The scent of him surrounds me, clean and invigorating like a spring shower. I keep my mouth clamped shut until his tongue slides over my bottom lip, and as I part my lips beneath his, the warmth in my belly explodes into an inferno.
My stomach tilts, unfamiliar sensations assaulting me from left and right, every nerve ending in my body springing to life at the same moment. I may not like this man, but my body sure as hell does.
He grips my hair and makes a low growl in his throat. Oh, God. That sound. It’s so… masculine. So dominant. Butterflies swarm my abdomen, their wings flapping and sending a maelstrom of feelings coursing through me.
I’m reeling.
Disoriented.
Surprised and shocked at the instinctual reaction.
Alexander De Vil isn’t an emotionless robot; he’s impassioned. A man who’s mastered the art of kissing.
When he releases me, I waver, clutching his arm to save myself from falling. Applause breaks out through the crowd. With my thoughts scattered, I risk a glance at my new husband. After a kiss like that, surely he’ll be as confounded as I am.
He meets my stunned gaze with a blank stare, and a part of me snaps inside. He isn’t affected at all. I may as well have been a mannequin for all the impact kissing me had on him.
I take it all back. He’s worse than an emotionless robot. He’s a master manipulator.
“Close your mouth, Imogen,” he murmurs, offering his arm in the expectation I’ll slide my hand through it as custom demands. “A kiss was expected, but since I don’t intend to kiss you like that again, there’s little point in standing there hoping for another.”
My jaw drops, this time in sheer fury, but all the angry words that flow onto my tongue wither when he grabs my hand, places it inside his arm, and says in a clear, crisp voice, “Walk, or I will throw you over my shoulder, carry you out of here, and give you a good, hard spanking in the bargain.”
He sets off walking at a brisk pace, and I have no other option but to keep up, especially with his arm trapping my hand like a vise.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Alexander smile fully. And when he does, he beams.
“Try me.”
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