Page 15 of The Temporary Bride

“Oh, it’s him! I thought so. You got this look on your face…”

I stand up, gathering my things. “I have to go.”

“But I just got here,” my sister complains, tucking her feet up onto the couch. “I want to know all the details. You still haven’t told me how the will reading went.”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” I say, although in all honesty, I have no intention of ever having that conversation. “I have to go.” I bite my lip and sigh. “I have to meet Tristan.”

Her eyes light up at that, and she grins. “Ah, I gotcha. You have to make time for your fiancé.”

I roll my eyes, shrugging my purse onto my shoulder as I turn for the door. “Yeah.”

“In the middle of the work day, though?”

“This is work,” I mutter. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

I can hear her giggling as I step out into the hallway, closing my office door behind myself.

Glad she’s enjoying herself, I think bitterly. I know Genevieve isn’t trying to be malicious, but it must be so easy for her to see the humor in this situation when it doesn’t directly involve her.

Oh, well. I’m sure I’d feel similar, if our roles were reversed.

I send a quick text to my driver, asking for a car to meet me at the building’s entrance, and head for the elevators.

As I lean against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the mirrored ceiling, I let out a long breath. The alone time here, descending ten floors to the lobby, is much needed. After talking to Genevieve, I always feel like I need to decompress.

I’m good at my job. The corporate world fits me like a glove—or, rather, I’ve molded myself to fit into it. But no amount of training can help me fit in with my own family.

For my entire life, I’ve felt as though I was striving to meet a standard that was impossible for me to meet. The mold of a Dawson is more difficult to achieve than the mold of a businesswoman. Genevieve never seems to feel that way, so it’s been hard to open up to her. She’s a more brashly confident person than I am, someone who fell easily into her expected role. We’re different.

The elevator doors slide open with a chime, and I step out into the lobby of MediaSphere’s headquarters. I catch more than a few curious stares as I cross the marble floor and hear a few whispers pass between my coworkers. I don’t look anyone in the eye. I’m sure that word has spread, and there’s plenty of gossip to go around, but I can’t let it be my problem.

Today, my problem is Tristan Thorne.

God… why did it have to be him? Any other Thorne brother, and this whole arrangement might have been easier to swallow. Sure, an arranged, corporate marriage was going to be difficult to navigate no matter what.

But I know Tristan. We have a history—a contentious one. He gets under my skin in a way that none of his brothers do. For as long as I’ve known him, I’ve been head-to-head with him, striving to beat him. I don’t know how to settle back and be on the same team as him.

The driver is waiting for me outside. I climb into the back seat of the plushly upholstered sedan, grateful for the tinted windows that hide me from the world. My driver glances back at me from the front seat.

“Where are you headed, Ms. Dawson?”

“To meet my fiancé,” I answer, forcing out the last word through a tight throat. “Downtown.”

Tristan is already there when we pull up at our arranged meeting spot on Rodeo Drive, dressed in a button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tattoos are exposed, giving me another look at the artwork winding around his arms. In the sunlight, I can see the details more clearly: fine geometric lines woven between twisting vines, with sharp thorns breaking through the dark ink like fractured glass.

He’s not alone either. There’s a woman with him. A pretty, curvy woman, almost a full foot shorter than him with a heart-shaped face and large blue-green eyes. Her wavy blonde hair bounces as she speaks, as though her body can’t contain her exuberance.

As I open the car door, she stands on tiptoe, and he leans down to let her kiss his cheek.

And just like that, there it is again, that same burning feeling in my chest that I felt when I saw Iris Burnham on his Instagram feed. A feeling that, if I’m being perfectly honest, might be jealousy.

I step out of the car, and Tristan locks eyes with me. As if he can read my thoughts, he smirks.

Now that I’m out of the car, I can see that they’re not alone, which is some small relief from the flash of resentment and suspicion. Two of his brothers are with him, so he’s probably not on a date. Probably.

“Hey,” I say, giving him a nod. “Care to introduce me to your friend?”

“Of course,” Tristan says smoothly. “Chloe, this is Ivy. And my brothers, Beckett and Dominic, who you’ve already met. Ivy, this is Chloe. My fiancée.”