Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“And a hundred thousand pounds would remedy that?”
Oliver’s tone makes my heart thump in my throat.
“No.” This comes from Fin.
I pivot, ready to argue with him, anger a hot flare inside me. How dare he?
“It might cover your loss of man hours and revenue, but what about the damage to your reputation? Not to mention the potential for other unforeseen repercussions.”
My God. He’s on my side. But why?
“Yes, you’re right,” I say spikily. “I suppose I just didn’t want to look greedy.”
“It’s not greed. It’s just business,” he says easily. And the fact that he’s obviously quicker on his feet than me. “I’d say a quarter of a mil is nearer the number.” He gives a considering nod, like we’re talking about Tic Tacs and not a quarter of a million pounds.
A quarter of a million pounds! I almost do a happy dance. I could move my grandmother to a facility with facilities instead of overworked staff and run-down services—I could secure her a room in the place the nurse told me about! Oh, my days. I could rent a flat and an office! Maybe even hire an assistant. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
“I hate to say it, but you could be right,” I reply evenly and not at all as though I’m about to pee my pants in excitement.
“What do you think, Evie?” Fin directs a pensive look his friend’s way.
“Well . . .”
“Two hundred thousand,” Oliver bites out, cutting his fiancée off as he reaches for her hand, as though to say Don’t.
“That sounds fair,” she says with a soft smile. “What do you say, Mila? Does that sound like fair compensation?”
Two hundred thousand ways to get my life back on track. I can hardly believe it as I manage to croak out, “Done.”
“Apparently, I have been,” Oliver mutters.
“Not quite,” I murmur, thanks to this audacious streak. I may own a failing business, but that does not make me a failure. God, where is a pen and paper when you need them. I should write that shit down and make it my mantra.
Oliver gives an arctic twist of his lips, but his disapproval won’t put me off now.
Evie and Oliver’s wedding was supposed to be a turning point for Trousseau. It occurs to me it might still be.
I am the architect of my own life, I silently intone. And as the pair are still getting married, in part thanks to me, I should . . .
“I want Trousseau, my company, named as the creative force behind your wedding. Your actual wedding. And I want to be credited in any statements or images you release.”
“Who says we’ll be releasing any?” Oliver murmurs as he straightens his cuffs.
“You will because you want to control the narrative,” I reply. “While also appeasing the press.”
“Of course we’ll do that,” Evie puts in, sending daggers her fiancé’s way. “Because it’s true.”
“Fine.” I swear her groom almost rolls his eyes. “We can attribute the success of our wedding as being down to you and your company. Any publicity will be carefully curated, painting your business in a favorable light.”
“Thank you.”
“As opposed to the negative kind of attention that will befall it should any of this get out.”
“I already signed an NDA,” I remind him. As if I’d ever admit to any of this.
“Thank you, Mila,” Evie says, reaching for my hand. “You can’t know what this means to us. To me.”
“Fin?” Oliver angles his gaze my pretend groom-to-be’s way. “What are friends for?”
“Stitching you up and shit talking your facial hair?” Fin replies, unfolding his large frame to stand. He glances my way, his expression inscrutable.
Finding me here must’ve been as much a shock to him as it was to me, though he’s certainly adept at rolling with the punches. But he didn’t have to do that, talk the price up. So why did he?
This all feels so bizarre. Unreal. Like any moment, one of them will yell Psych! and I’ll find out it’s all a joke. And I’ll probably cry as the pee-my-pants excitement turns to crushing disappointment.
But then, Fin reaches for my hand. My skin totally isn’t tingling at his touch, and his smile absolutely isn’t warming me from the inside out. Or so I tell myself.
It’s just a few extra days. I can cope with that.
My mind jumps from days to date, and I find myself biting back a silly grin. Baba would be so smug. But the date—today’s date—is just a coincidence. It’s not like she was right about the name of my supposed groom. What did she say it was, again? Not Fin, that’s for sure.
Baba, my very lovely but very strange grandmother, likes to think she has “the sight.” And about 50 percent of the time, it appears she has. But even a stopped clock is right twice a day.