At school, I insisted on writing everything in pen, not because I liked the way it looked—I did—but mostly because I never made a mistake. Pencils were a waste of space in my already crammed desk.
“When we get home, maybe you could write the first letter?” my mother suggested.
“I think we’ve thrown too much at him too soon,” my father said, leaning into her. “Let’s just let the boy enjoy his ice cream.”
They didn’t bring it up again—for a week.
For days, I dragged my feet writing that stupid letter. And by the time I did, I was so annoyed with the whole thing that I simply told my “future wife” that I hated her. In my eight-year-old mind, I was certain that if I was a jerk, she’d call off our wedding. That’s the kind of stuff that happened in the movies, anyway. It seemed logical enough.
A month later, our jet touched down at some hole-in-the-wall airport in Maine.
Standing next to an idling Escalade were a man and woman my parents’ age, and a little girl with ice-blonde pigtails and a scowl on her face.
For the entire first day, she wouldn’t talk, look, or so much as breathe in my direction.
I was certain my hate mail strategy had worked, that it wouldn’t be long before she told her parents she didn’t want to marry me and I’d be off the hook.
God, I was a naïve little shit back then.
“Ah, here’s the young woman of the hour,” Cedric announces, pulling me out of my bittersweet reverie. “Fashionably late, of course.”
Like a proper gentleman, I rise until she takes the seat across from me, and I pretend not to notice that her lips are slicked in the palest pink balm, her lashes are painted dark, her blonde waves are pressed to silken perfection, and her entire look is rounded out by a curve-hugging little black dress.
Black must be her signature color because lately it’s all she wears.
She’ll stand out in Palm Beach if she continues to dress like she’s in mourning, but I’ll let her learn that on her own.
My gaze pierces hers for a single endless moment before we sit down.
“You look beautiful, Campbell,” I tell her while her parents watch with bated breath and stars for eyes. “As always.”
It’s as if they’ve forgotten this entire thing is unnatural and orchestrated.
But we haven’t.
Campbell’s steel-blue eyes flash, as if she thinks I’m lying—as I’ve done before with various compliments.
But the thing is, this time I’m telling the truth.
She’s, unquestionably, one of the most sinfully gorgeous women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Feminine in all senses of the word. Every detail of this obnoxious creature—from her delicate collarbone to her Coke-bottle silhouette to her long runner’s legs to the delicate arch of her size 7 feet—is sheer perfection.
She could wear a paper bag and still turn heads.
This woman—without question—is the very definition of a bombshell.
I’d have to be blind, stupid, or crazy to state otherwise.
“You look tired,” she says with a coy smirk, instantly reminding me that the game we’re playing here has never been checkers.
It has always been chess.
And it will always be chess.
For better, for worse.
‘Til death do us part.
.
Campbell—
My parents are making me send you this Valentine’s Card. It was not my idea. It came with a Spiderman tattoo, but I kept it.
Slade (age 9)
Slade—
I already got cards from other boys. Plus six tattoos, five erasers, three pencils, a Dora sticker, and a pink flower ring.
Campbell (age 8)
Campbell—
Maybe you should marry one of them instead of me?
Slade (age 9)
Dear Slade—
Maybe I will.
Campbell (age 8)
4
Campbell
“I have something for you,” Slade reaches into the pocket of his dress slacks, pulling out a small, dark object.
After dinner, my parents suggested we “cozy around the fireplace” on the back deck with some dessert wine, except as soon as we all got situated, they suddenly decided to call it a night and left the two of us alone to catch up.
I’m sure they think they’re doing us a favor, fostering romance or something, but my alone time with Slade is only ever filled with barbs and one-liners and each of us checking the time every two seconds.
“Why?” I ask.
He snickers. “Usually when someone gives you a gift, the first thing out of your mouth shouldn’t be the word why …”
I clear my throat and straighten my posture. “I just mean, we don’t do gifts. You’ve never given me anything. Why now?”
“Wasn’t aware I had to have a reason …” The crackling fire paints shadows on his handsome face as his dark eyes glint the way they do when he’s up to something.
My stomach turns upside down, against my will.
I’ve always loved and hated it when he looks at me. It’s as if he’s mocking me yet undressing me with his gaze simultaneously, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. I’ve yet to wrap my head around the fact that we’re going to have to consummate our marriage at some point in the near future—we haven’t even held hands. Not because our families are ultra conservative or anything like that … we simply haven’t wanted to.
But in less than six months, his lips will be on mine in front of a sea of friends and family.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if we started being semi-nice to each other as we march toward our inevitable doom.
I mean, at the end of the day, we’re on the same team.
He drops a small leather object in my hand. Attached to it is a shiny gold fob.
“What’s this?” I examine my gift in the dark.
“My house key,” he says.
I run my fingertips along the leather key ring, realizing there’s some kind of inscription on one side. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s a capital D flanked by a C and an E …my soon-to-be monogram.
Campbell Elizabeth Delacorte.
As much as I hate the idea of taking his last name, I have to admit Campbell Delacorte has a nicer ring to it than Campbell Wakemont. It’s softer, rolling off the tongue easier than it should.
“It was my mother’s idea,” he says before I can comment.
“Thank you.” I close my palm around the key ring.
The plan has always been for us to reside in Florida after the wedding—not only is it a notorious tax haven for the uber-rich like the Delacortes, it’s the headquarters of Delacorte Media Group, one of the most powerful media conglomerates in the world with thousands of employees. I wouldn’t dream of making a single one of those innocent people relocate for my sake, so I agreed to the move. Besides, Slade would be miserable in Sapphire Shores, and he’s already going to be miserable enough in this marriage. No need to double down.
“It’s not too late to call this whole thing off, you know.” I study his face as I reach for my wine.