Rubbing my face, I grab some scotch. I so need to drink.
Jesus. Stop panicking. It won’t solve anything.
I tap my fingers on the table as the scotch burns my throat. She’s here—with me. And she’s going to stay, at least for now. And she hasn’t said no to our marriage.
When a woman is trying to make me jump through hoops just to see if she can do it, I can tell. That’s not what’s happening with Paige. She genuinely needs to know the answer to her question.
Thinking back on it, I have no clue why I didn’t trust her on the night of our engagement party. I should have. Even if I wasn’t sure, I should’ve at least given her the moral support she needed rather than demanding that she explain herself, like she was on trial or something.
It’s a long time—and a large bottle—later when I finally go to bed. But I still don’t have an answer.
Chapter Twelve
Paige
The next morning, I crack my eyes open with a renewed sense of purpose. Since I told Ryder I’d go back to my job, I follow my standard routine. Get up. Shower. Get dressed and put on my conservative work makeup with a pink lip gloss.
The only difference is that I don’t have a commute, and I eat breakfast at the counter in Ryder’s kitchen.
Elizabeth is there already, munching on a piece of toast with extra jam. She’s in another of her designer dresses, this time a magenta Armani. I saw it on display during my post-engagement shopping spree.
“Morning.” She smiles at me over a mug of coffee. Her cup reads Beauty Is What You Make of It.
“Good morning.” The chef places tea in front of me.
“Nice to have you back,” she says with a smile.
“Thanks. Ryder around?”
“Probably still asleep. The housekeeper said he went to bed late.” Then she adds, “He didn’t go out with Elliot.”
I laugh. Elizabeth is so sweet, and I can’t help but love her more when she treats me like I’m a real fiancée for Ryder, even though she has to know the truth.
“By the way did you see the latest issue of Lifestyle?” she asks.
I shake my head. It’s a fashion and high-society gossip magazine, and I don’t read it.
“They did a feature on your wedding.”
“What?” I blink. “We aren’t even married yet.”
“Oh, not like that. They have photos of some of the designs and motifs you’re going to be using. They’re gorgeous.” She sighs. “The ceremony’s going to look like a fairy princess dream come true.”
A sense of unease tugs at me. People are already making a big deal about our ceremony, and I’m not even sure there’s going to be one. The fallout… Good god. I can’t imagine.
I finish my simple breakfast of a bagel and cream cheese and go to my office. It’s still the same, despite my extended absence. The antique Louis XIV desk, the armchairs, the view of the pool and the garden…and the über-expensive ergonomic desk chair that’s set specifically to my body’s dimensions. I pause at the sight of the barbed wired wall in the middle distance. I always thought it made Ryder’s estate look like a prison compound. But after having been in the spotlight for a while, I have a new appreciation for it. Actually, it’s a miracle Ryder hasn’t razed the mansion and built a bunker.
After booting up my laptop, I find the article Elizabeth was talking about at breakfast. Sure enough, it’s on the main page of Lifestyle’s website. The photos are stunning, displaying bridal whites and some lovely spring green shades. I scroll down to the end, then spot the first comment, from a user named lifehack.
What a waste when they’re probably going to divorce within a year. It’s not like the girl’s hot enough to keep him. He’ll get bored with her once the novelty of fatherhood wears off.
The rest of the comments, and there are hundreds, are much uglier. It’s like lifehack set the tone for everyone else. The consensus seems to be that I am not worthy of any of this because I don’t fit the image of “beautiful” and “glamorous”. One of them even wrote, Read that Ryder is behind some anonymous funding for animal shelters in NC. He really deserves better than this dog.
Then one of them posts a meme with a manatee with my face photoshopped onto it. A wedding veil and flowers sit on my head. The caption reads Paigatee.
The picture is hideous, the photoshop work clumsy and obviously done on the fly, but the effect still knocks the breath out of me. My face heats, and the area around my eyes prickles.
But Paigatee isn’t the end of it. There are more memes, each nastier than the one before, as though people are trying to one-up each other on the thread. Many of them also reference the sex tape, mocking my body because “who the hell would want to see a fat chick get laid?” Each comment comes with a “Report Abuse” button, but if I clicked all of them I’d give myself carpel tunnel.