My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(35)

“Romeo.” Bruce gulped. He was in it for the money. We both knew Senior needed to make a decision soon—and that decision would either be our windfall or drought. “You should sleep on it. At the very leas—”

“Let’s see you walking down that aisle first, Son.” My father tried and failed, yet again, to slice his pie. Definitely his disease. His fork clattered to his plate as he reached for his drink. “And then I’ll seriously consider it.”

I’m not your son.

Not where it matters.

I crushed my gum between my teeth.

Other than wanting the Costa dynasty to continue, Senior also saw my reproduction as entertainment for his wife. He figured that if he blackmailed me into marriage, I’d have children, a family, something to keep Monica engaged and fulfilled.

She wanted grandchildren and cheesy Christmas vacations and Hallmark-worthy holiday cards. The makeshift family she’d never had because my father was too busy dicking down anything on the East Coast with a skirt to pay us any real attention.

Monica lifted her glass. “Romeo?”

“Yes?”

“Where is Dallas?”

Good question.

She’d escaped my mind.

And possibly the premises.

Since there was a reasonable chance the answer to it was running off to live in the woods with a family of badgers, I tossed my napkin over my plate and stood. “I’ll check on her.”

Monica touched her throat. “Look at him. I haven’t seen Rom so involved with anyone since Morgan.”

Morgan.

I didn’t even bother checking if Shortbread was in the kitchen, the garden, or Senior’s library. I knew exactly where I’d find her and took the stairs two at a time.

I rounded the massive mahogany hallway, flinging the door open to my childhood room. Sure enough, Dallas was there, perched on the edge of my teenage bed, flipping through an old photo album.

Morgan and me vacationing in Aspen.

Morgan and me in New York.

Morgan and me kissing. Hugging.

Existing in our own little universe.

She didn’t look up, even when I entered the room and shut the door behind me.

“Why didn’t you marry her?” Her voice sounded faraway. In another galaxy. “Morgan. You obviously still love her.”

Why wouldn’t Dallas assume so?

My old room was a shrine to my ex-girlfriend.

Photo albums. Framed pictures. Stubs from concerts we’d attended. Memorabilia from exotic places we’d visited.

I refused to throw away the evidence that I was once a fully functioning human.

Morgan’s face stamped every inch of this room. Her slight ballerina frame. Her dimpled smile.

She was as graceful as a perfect autumn day. Exceling everywhere my current fiancée fell short.

Approaching my future wife, I swiped the album out of her hands and tucked it back inside the nightstand drawer, its usual residence.

For all I cared, I could burn every memory of Morgan to the ground, then piss on the remains to avoid a fire. I’d completely recovered from our five-year relationship and the broken engagement that had followed it.

But I couldn’t destroy the proof of our relationship, or the members of my so-called family would misinterpret the reason.

“Marrying her wasn’t an option.”

Mainly since I’d kicked her out of our shared penthouse stark naked on the day our engagement had fallen apart, then filed a restraining order against her when she continuously found her way to my door, begging for forgiveness.

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?” Dallas slanted her lovely face upward, blinking with those dark, curly lashes that made her look like a Disney animal.

Denial settled on the tip of my tongue before I realized that, if I said yes, I’d spare Shortbread from heartbreak when I eventually got rid of her.

Already, her body was too attuned to mine.

Beneath the rebellious streak was a young woman capable of great love. Love I certainly wouldn’t return. It was better to establish we’d be nothing but a business transaction.

“Yes,” I heard myself say.

It was the first time in years that actual laughter gathered in my throat.

Me. In love with Morgan.

I had more sympathy for the devil.

Dallas’s throat bobbed. She nodded, gathering her dress and standing.

“What about you?” I asked. “Does Madison have your heart?”

This was what Frankie had claimed.

I’d been meaning to sniff around the subject. Not because I cared, but because I needed to know if I should monitor her.

Just because I didn’t have feelings toward her didn’t mean I was receptive to a scandal that would rock D.C. to its core.

She paused at the door, her back to me.

“Your co-worker and his wife are getting on my last nerve.” She ignored my question. “I would like to go home in the next ten minutes.”

I would’ve pushed her about Madison, but I simply couldn’t find it in me to muster the curiosity.

“I’ll call Jared.”





At the very least, I could rest easy knowing my husband’s lack of civility extended to others, too.

Jared pulled in front of the mansion near midnight. My future husband unfastened his seat belt, his face still buried in his phone screen, reading an article on Forbes Money.