My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(32)

My future wife looked sensational.

Ample cleavage shot past the corset bodice of her solid-gold dress. Her tiny waist swayed as she walked, guiding the floor-sweeping train. A loose bun rested on her head, tendrils of dark locks framing her face.

She was so absurdly beautiful, I watched her every move like she was a Fata Morgana.

Alas, even Miss Townsend, as alluring as she was, couldn’t break the no-heirs rule.

Dallas reached the last stair, where she thrusted her Chanel purse in my chest. I caught it, indulging her.

If holding her purse tonight meant she’d be a good girl when I introduced her to my parents, I was willing to play the gentleman for a short while.

“I’m going to get a snack to-go. I haven’t eaten in two hours.”

Where did she fit all this food?

“Hurry up and mind the dress.”

She started to the kitchen, then stopped, frowning. “Is your family terrible? I need to know whether to compliment my snack with a shot of something strong.”

“Get yourself two shots. Actually, bring the whole bottle. We’ll share.”





On second thought, I had buyer’s remorse.

I spent the drive to my parents’ house staring at my future wife, wondering if she’d been raised by coyotes. Dallas’s long, shapely legs strewed beneath her like excess fabric of a newly worn dress.

She split open an Oreo and licked the cream with a moan, washing it down with the vintage champagne we shared. “You know in Japan they have Bourbon choco and coffee biscuits? Imagine what that must taste like.”

The only thing I imagined was my cum in the Oreo cream’s place, dripping from between her succulent lips. It infuriated me that I’d momentarily fallen for it when she claimed to be an alcoholic.

The woman was straight as an arrow. Lazy, spoiled, and reckless, sure. But her only vice seemed to be food that would send her into the arms of type 2 diabetes and an early grave.

Unfortunately, Dallas interpreted my glaring as an open invitation for conversation. “So, why does your daddy want you to marry so bad?”

She flicked a cream-less Oreo cookie into the trash and picked another one, cracking it open just for the filling.

I didn’t bother asking how she knew this. The cameras in my study had caught her snooping on my desktop in 4K Ultra HD.

“Because he gets off on control as much as I do and knows I’d sooner obtain a pet bear than a wife if it were my choice.”

“Yay me.” Her tongue swept up the cream. Christ. “And why do you go along with it?”

“Because he’s dangling the company I’m set to inherit as a carrot, and I won’t lose it to that brown-nosing bag of STDs, Bruce.”

“Tell me about this Bruce.”

She stopped licking the cream and scanned me, her interest piqued. It was the first time the woman hadn’t actively tried to either kill me or drive me to madness, so I threw her another bone.

“He’s the COO of Costa Industries, an unbearable prick, and worst of all, phenomenal at his job. You will notice when we get there that my father treats Bruce like a prized poodle. Senior met Bruce a year before Monica became pregnant with me. They’d tried for years with no luck, so he figured Bruce was his one and only chance at a legacy.”

“What about Bruce’s dad?”

“Irrelevant. Owns a pharmaceutical empire, which will go to Bruce’s older brother, then pass down that lineage.”

“So, Bruce wants into the Costa legacy.”

“Precisely. Months before he discovered Monica’s pregnancy, Senior took Bruce under his wing, signing him with Costa Industries. Bruce has done his bidding since, getting married to a horsey fashion-empire heiress just so her dad would invest in Senior’s endeavors. Senior wants us to be his puppets. Whatever is ours must be his, too.”

Shortbread tucked a tendril behind her ear. “Your daddy sounds even worse than mine.”

“Doubtful.”

“How come?”

“No one decent would ever hand over their precious daughter to someone like me.”

“You admit that you’re horrible, then.” She celebrated with a single fist pump.

“I admit I lack compassion, sympathy, and empathy. Which is why I would have been better off staying single.”

“And your mom?”

“She mainly lacks a backbone. Her compassion levels are adequate.”

Dallas rolled her eyes. “I mean, are you close with her?”

“Not remotely.” I sipped our champagne. “She’s nothing to write home about.”

“Shouldn’t she be your home?”

God, Dallas sounded like a children’s book again.

“Enough chitchat, Shortbread. You’re here to look pretty and alive. The free therapy is redundant.”

Dallas sighed.

“It’s awful, isn’t it? How, at the end of the day, all we are is a byproduct of our parents’ ambitions, principles, and desires. A collection of memories, mistakes, and unexplainable yearning to please those who gave us life. Look at us.” She gazed out the window, her perfect cupid’s lips drawn downward. “Both stuck in an engagement we want nothing to do with because of our parents.”

I stared at her, the ice block padding my chest somewhat thawing.