ELLA

I’ll sooner die than fake moans for a crippled, old billionaire but apparently death isn’t on the marriage contract.

“Think he can even get it up?” I sigh, collapsing back into the satin sheets.

Cassie throws me a look before she shoves the table over, the crash echoing through the suite. Cigarette butts scatter across the tiled floor.

The crime scene is coming along nicely.

“Which of them? Harris or… your groom-to-be?” she asks, bored, as if we are discussing nail polish.

True. Which of them?

Fifteen years of loving Harris and I am not even sure he owns a dick, or if he just polishes it on the weekends.

“The groom-to-be,” I shiver the words out, “maybe if I jerk it well enough, I’ll have a good thirty seconds on it before it keels over and dies.”

Cassie snorts, uncapping a bottle of scotch. “I’m sure he can’t be that bad. He’s just crippled.”

“Yeah,” I scoff, “from his legs down. Such marital bliss.”

She wrinkles her nose. “He’s also autistic. And old. Oh my gosh, you are screwed.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

I peel off my shorts and kick them under the king-sized bed, leaving me in a low V-cut, transparent Tee that barely covers my ass. That's the point. “Why would my father do this to me? I mean, why me?”

Cassie doesn’t answer. She can't. No one except the man who thinks pawning off his daughter to a business associate's broken son is genius can answer that.

Darren Ford. Even his name sounds like a disease.

I glance at Cassie, catching the remnants of judgment on her pale, ungrateful face. “What?” I snap.

“Nothing.” She drops the bottle on the headboard. “Just… is this right though? Harris doesn't deserve this.”

I narrow my gaze. My Vivienne Westwood shirt hangs on her wiry frame, my Dior shoes on her bony feet, my Hermès purse perched at her side.

Notice how everything starts with my? Because it's all mine, including the little leech wearing it.

“Cassie Bartholomew, did you just grow a conscience?”

“That’s not what I mean, Ella. It's just… calling Harris, lying, seducing him when he's in love with your sister—”

“Not for long.”

“Ella…”

“We are not friends, Cassie,” I cut in, irritated by her sudden possession by Mother Teresa. “You are here to do what you do best— lie, scheme, and hold the damn camera. Don't play holy when you've blown half the bouncers in L.A for free entry.”

Her face drained, lips quivering with words she doesn't dare say. Something ugly twists in my chest— guilt, maybe. I crush it before it grows.

I wish I didn't love him this much.

“Now, douse that scotch all over me, then get in the closet and make yourself useful.”

She hesitates but obeys. The liquor soaks my shirt, clinging to my skin. “See how cute you are when you’re obedient?”

She murmurs a response, probably calling me ‘bitch’ in all languages, and she wouldn’t be the first. I won’t lose sleep over it.

And Harris will be here soon. Cassie reluctantly pushes herself into the closet exactly opposite the bed.

I grab a bottle of wine and strike a perfect pose. From numerous experiences, DL hotel beds don't creak. Makes it perfect for tonight.

One. Two. On three, the door beeps. Harris enters.

His tall frame fills the doorway, his shoulders sagging when he sees me alive. His eyes— those droopy brown eyes I've memorized since childhood— soften. “Isa? You okay?”

Only he calls me that. Ella to the world, Isabel to my mom before she died from cancer, my little princess to my dad before he remarried the devil.

Isa is mine. Isa is his.

He steps closer, and for a moment disgust flickers on his face at the smell of alcohol. Then it's gone, replaced by that crooked smile that makes me weak. “God, you look terrible. Let's get you home.”

I groan loudly, perhaps too exaggeratedly. “I don’t wanna go. I’m soo… tired. I need sleep.”

The slurring part is fake, forced, but I play the part.

“Sure you do. But at home, not here,” he says gently, sliding my arms around his shoulders.

And I melt. Like butter. Heat. Solid. Safe. Harris.

I release my body weight, shoving him back onto the bed with me on top. “Oh, you’re so comfy!”

“Ella, let’s get you home.” There’s obvious discomfort in his voice. What there isn’t is the familiar bulge that signals a successful mission.

He isn’t even turned on. “Come on.”

“But I like it here.”

“Isa.”

I look up and he’s frowning. My stomach knots. He knows.

Reluctantly, shame prickling my skin, I roll off him, silence drowning the room.

Of course, he knows all of my antics by now. Harris is like a son to my father, raised by my family after his father died.

I’ve never once seen him as a brother. You don’t always dream of fucking your brother.

We’ve been best friends for sixteen years, and I have loved him for fifteen. Through every drought, every storm, every toxic ex-girlfriend, and even his disgusting emo phase.

My entire life has been thrown into upheaval multiple times, but he’s the only thing that grounds me. My person.

And he doesn't want me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“We’ve been over this, Isa.” There’s a tinge of pity in his tone that I despise. “I don’t see you that way, I love Ivy.”

“Of course.” I sit up, adjusting my shirt while painfully aware of my tits on display. “Of course, you do. Always Ivy.”

“Isa..”

“It’s fine. I understand. I’m sorry for trying to…” I threw my arms. “Whatever the hell this is, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Harris adds. I’m convinced I have heard enough.

My stomach hurts and my chest ices over. I stand up and grab a shirt, aware that Cassie is still in the closet, hearing all of it. “You don’t have to explain anything anymore.”

“No, you don’t understand, I—”

“Harris, leave. Go find Ivy, okay?”

When I turn around, he’s holding a small box. My knees buckle. I recognize it all too well.

My heart doesn't just break. It begs. Pathetic, isn't it? Desperately pining for something so out of reach.

He’s choosing my sister. He really is choosing her.

“I’m asking her tonight,” Harris says softly. “I want your blessing, Isa. Your dad already gave his.”

I swear I want to lie, fake a smile, and say I am happy for my best friend, but fire fills my veins. Rage is easier than heartbreak. “Close the door on your way out, Harris.”

My fate is sealed.

My step-sister gets my soulmate. And I get the crippled billionaire.

***

WEDDING DAY (Two weeks later)

I’m standing at the altar in a lacy black dress, mourning my innocence and freedom, also refuting every string of conformity that thinks white is the standard.

Honestly, this day is a funeral.

The officiant has the same expectant look in his eyes as everyone else.

No groom with a tucked-in napkin and a slobber-coated face is being wheeled in yet.

The guests, only fifty but each important, stare like I am a sideshow. My father sits with his snake of a wife, Ivy clings to Harris, and his ring like it's her oxygen tank.

If he kisses her one more time, I’ll make a deal with Poseidon and have him flood us all.

The cathedral is large, mocking the number of people occupying it. There isn’t a single smile in sight, if you exclude Ivy’s fake one.

I’m surprised her arrhythmia hadn’t caused her to faint when Harris proposed.

I heave a sigh. Even a crippled groom can't be bothered to show up for me. Gone are the days of Ella DiLaurantis.

The officiant leans towards the mic. “Looks like the wedding won’t—”

“Hold that thought,” a deep voice cuts through the hush, tracing back to a tall frame just by the wooden doors of the cathedral.

Heads turn.

A tall frame strides in from the cathedral doors. I can't make out his face yet. My gut says he's here with news of a tragic accident. Maybe my groom died en route.

I knew I had chosen the right dress. The guests stare in awe, but Ivy— she looks like she's seen a ghost.

As his stranger steps closer, his features sharpen. He's dripping with luxury and a sinful allure accentuated by deep blue eyes framed by thick brows, and a stone-carved jaw.

Fuck. He’s hot. And certainly not my groom.

The six-foot-something man stretches his arm forward when he reaches the altar. “Darren Ford,” he says with a quirky smirk. “Your husband-to-be.”

What?