Then I moved inside the lounge and took my first step toward my future husband.
I couldn’t stand out more even if I’d stripped naked and dipped myself in hot pink paint.
The lounge kept in the hotel’s theme of being expensive-looking and meant for an upper echelon I was not a member of. I didn’t belong there. I felt it as much as I sensed the few stares from people thinking the same thing. There might not have been a list of rules stapled outside the door, but it was clear there were plenty of unsaid ones.
Like one shall not step foot into this space unless their net worth tips the seven-figure boundary. Or one shall not breathe this air unless they drive a car that costs as much as a modest house. Or one shall not rub elbows with the rest of the inhabitants unless they have so many prospects, they’ve become an inconvenience of their own.
But since no one was guarding the entrance or about to toss me out for forcing my presence on the place, I moved deeper into the room.
It wasn’t as large as I’d expected it would be, but that could be due to the number of bodies already filling the lounge. It was early by a Friday night’s standards, but this place seemed like the kind of spot a person needed to make an early claim on. Above the bar was a giant stained glass window of a peacock, and the rest of the room followed the same theme. Rich colors, showy accents.
It wasn’t my kind of place at all. I preferred the local hole-in-the-wall or dive. If this pretentious space was his kind of place, then this marriage wouldn’t just be difficult because of our illegal arrangement. If this was the kind of place he felt comfortable in—the type of people he fit in with—then we were polar opposites.
Because this whole thing needed to be more complicated . . .
I scanned the room for someone flagging me over. He knew what I’d be wearing tonight, but I didn’t know what he would be in. If the room was any indication, he was probably parading around in a suit that cost more to dry-clean than anything in my wardrobe had cost brand new.
I continued to just stand there, doing another room scan. I didn’t know what he looked like. How old he was. What nationality he was. His hair color. Height. Skin color. Nothing. I knew his last name and that he was willing to pay me a million dollars to marry him. That was all I needed to know to say I do.
Some people exchanged sex for money. I was exchanging marriage. Go ahead and judge me. God knew I’d done plenty of it on my own.
Okay, still nothing. How much longer was he going to keep me standing here feeling like an outcast in my kaleidoscope of colors and cotton?
Kate was at a table with her friends, trying not to make it obvious she was watching me as though she was waiting for this Sturm guy to come stick a knife in my back like she’d convinced herself he’d already done in figurative terms.
A bunch of couples were clustered close together, kissing, touching, whispering . . . one couple, in particular, had me guesstimating how long it would be before the woman was spread out on the closest semi-private surface with her legs in the air. The guy didn’t seem as enthusiastic about the prospect, but she didn’t look like the kind of girl who heard no often. If ever.
I was half considering coming to Mr. Stiff Back’s rescue and mentioning something about his male lover running a few minutes late, but that was when I noticed, from the corner of my eye, someone’s arm lift.
I swallowed. It was him.
I gave myself one moment to prep for anything, so when I did look at him, nothing that hinted at surprise was present. If I acted surprised by the way he looked, then that led to the conclusion that I’d set expectations, and I didn’t have any.
No expectations. An exchange of vows. A million dollars. That was it. Nothing else. Nothing less. Certainly nothing more.
A business deal.
When I did look at the man with his arm extended, I felt nothing. No disappointment. No pleasant surprise. Nothing.
When my attention settled on him, he waved me over to the empty seat in front of him. He’d somehow wound up with the best spot in the whole room—a couple of deep-seated chairs positioned across from each other beneath a glowing chandelier.
As I passed Kate, she didn’t make it subtle that she was staring at the man I was moving toward. I didn’t have to check her face to know she was wearing some combination of a glare and a gape.
Even though I had no expectations, I knew Kate had arrived with some, and this guy definitely tipped toward the old end of the age scale. It was hard to say in this light, but he could have easily been my father, if not my grandfather.
I swallowed again. Okay, so he was old. So what? It wasn’t like I had to service his shriveled balls or anything. Marriage for money. Simple. If age wasn’t a factor for falling in love, then it definitely shouldn’t be for falling in fake love.
When I was a little way’s back, the man rose from the chair and painted on a conventional smile. It wasn’t warm. Nothing resembling friendly. It looked more forced than anything, like he was fighting every emotion to keep it there, which kind of baffled me. He was the one who’d set this whole marriage of mutual benefit into action.
Then it hit me—I was looking at the man I was going to marry.
I guessed the emotions dicing my gut into confetti were not the same feelings other women had when they looked at the guy they were about to exchange vows with.
“Miss Burton,” he said, motioning at the chair across from him.
“Mr. Sturm.” I made myself look into his eyes so he could see I wasn’t intimidated. I wasn’t some weak thing he could bend and twist to his liking. I needed him to know from the start that I might have accepted the position of his future bride, but I wasn’t giving up my identity in exchange. I wasn’t giving up the most microscopic sliver of it.
“Please, have a seat.” His gaze dropped to the chair I was positioned in front of.
I didn’t move. “You first.” I indicated the chair behind him and waited.
His brows came together, but after holding out for another minute, he took a seat. I stayed standing until he was fully situated.
“Would you like a drink?” His eyes darted to the bar.
I dropped into the chair slowly, reminding myself to think before I spoke. Every time I spoke. I didn’t want to start our relationship with him ordering me a drink. It was too much like a real relationship. Too traditional.
“No.” I shook my head and crossed my ankles. “Thank you.”