Married To My Devilish Rival

Chapter 4

Tristan Carrington

Throwing my head back, I down the bourbon, my face twisting briefly as it burns its way down my throat.

“Take it easy, Carrington,” Valentin says, voice deep and rough.

I set the glass on the table.

“Remind me again why we’re discussing the future of my family company in a nightclub?”

I look around the club with distaste.

This isn’t the type of place I like to frequent.

It’s nothing compared to the exclusive membership-only bars I’m used to.

The music is deafening, loud enough to make the table vibrate beneath my hands.

“You said you wanted somewhere private.”

Private.

Not some place where only a dark partition separates our booth from the rest of the crowd.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I sigh into my palm.

“I said that but I didn’t mean a nightclub.”

Obviously.

“People here care more about Noire than your family drama.”

My brows draw together.

“Who the hell is Noire?”

Valentin opens his mouth, but before he can spew nonsense, the stage lights up. A golden pole, I hadn’t noticed before, glitters under the lights.

The crowd quiets as a performer steps onto the platform, her golden hair glinting under the bright stage lights like a halo.

But that’s not what piques my curiosity.

It’s the mask.

The golden mask curves delicately over her eyes, its intricate black filigree catching the light when she turns her head. It conceals just enough to make Noire mysterious while leaving the rest of her face visible.

The crowd holds its breath.

She remains still until the music starts. Then her heels click against the wooden floor, and I find myself wondering why I’m still watching.

When her hand finds the pole, she lifts herself onto it with such precision that the movement seems almost effortless. She twists, her blonde hair sweeping across her shoulder and revealing the red ink across her back. The familiar pattern catches my attention.

Magnolia.

She continues the performance with a spin on the pole, lifting her chin. A bright smile spreads across her lips, as though she’s found some kind of peace in the spotlight.

Or perhaps it’s simply the dancing she enjoys.

Then she slows, finally scanning the crowd as though searching for something.

The crowd, silent before, now buzz with anticipation.

What’s happening?

“Here comes the interesting part.”

I hear Valentin say but I don’t look in his direction, too captivated by this mysterious pole dancer.

Her eyes sweep lazily over the crowd.

Then they move in my direction.

Towards my table.

And land on me.

A pair of green eyes stare right at me.

Something flashes in her eyes, then disappears.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. It’s almost as though she’s trying to see through me.

I wonder if she can tell how much I’ve been drawn into this little game of hers.

And by the smirk playing on her lips, she enjoys this just as much.

Two can play a game.

When I expect her to look away, she does something to throw me off completely.

She slips her bottom lip between her teeth.

Fuck.

The action is so subtle, yet sensual.

She trails a finger from her neck to the exposed area of her chest, daring me to trail my eyes to her breasts.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Are you listening to me?”

Valentin’s voice snaps me out of the trance.

“I am.”

Tearing my eyes from the masked performer, I meet Valentin’s smirking face.

“No, you’re not. You’re staring.”

I lean back into the velvet couch, picking up the glass of bourbon. “It was just a glance. The lights caught my attention.”

That’s a lie and he knows it.

“If you insist,” he says, waving a server over to order another glass of whiskey.

I risk a glance to Noire, spinning on the pole. She doesn’t look in my direction for the rest of her performance. As the end nears, she takes a bow, tipping her chin down.

The crowd jumps to their feet applauding her, but I stay rooted in my seat.

Can’t let anyone, especially Valentin, know I enjoyed the performance as much as they did.

Then she exits the stage, leaving the ghost of her mystery.

When I meet Valentin’s eyes, he smirks, but doesn’t comment on the distraction.

“Have you considered what you’re going to do?”

The inheritance clause.

I’d almost forgotten why I was here in the first place.

To find a solution to Grandfather’s marriage condition.

“Marry the love of my life, obviously,” I say, voice dry with sarcasm.

“How are you going to marry the love of your life when you don’t believe in love?”

I swirl the bourbon in my glass, watching it circle the edges. That’s exactly how I feel. Trapped.

“I believe in marriage. I simply don’t see why it needs to involve love.”

“So your grand plan is to convince everyone you’re in love.”

Exactly.

“My plan is to find a woman who understands the arrangement, has something to gain from it, and knows better than to expect anything beyond what we agree on.”

Why marry for love when you can play pretend?

A marriage without the complications of love. Perfect.

Valentin nods in agreement. “Have you thought of anyone?”

“I’m not proposing to anyone tonight.”

“You have fifty-something days left before your cousin gets everything. You might want to start.”

He’s right.

The list of politician daughters, heiresses, and supermodels, sits at my desk awaiting review.

“I need someone discreet, independent, and sensible enough to understand that this arrangement benefits both of us.”

“Someone who won’t fall in love with you,” Valentin says.

I take a gulp of bourbon. “Someone who won’t mistake a contract for a declaration of devotion.”

“In that case, I have a suggestion.”

That draws my attention.

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

A pause.

“Daphne Whitmore.”

Fuck no.

“Absolutely not,” I say, voice sharp without giving it a second thought.

Something in my expression hardens at the mere mention of her name.

I can’t possibly stand the woman, yet marry her.

“You haven’t heard my reasoning.”

“I don’t need to. I’d rather marry a clown.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth. As much as I don’t want to hear his reasoning, a part of me is curious.

Fucking traitor.

“You need someone independent, someone with her own money and a business to run. Daphne has all of that. She wouldn’t need you to finance her lifestyle or make decisions for her.”

Shaking my head, I drink the rest of the bourbon in my glass, setting the glass down on the table with a sharp click.

“You’ve somehow managed to make the suggestion worse.”

“You wanted someone who wouldn’t be impressed by your surname. Daphne barely tolerates your existence.”

Exactly why she’s the wrong choice.

“Which means she wouldn’t mistake this for a love story,” Valentin adds.

As much as I dislike to admit, his reasoning is valid.

She barely tolerates my existence. I doubt she’d mistake this arrangement for a love story.

Those things didn’t excite her. And I certainly don’t excite her.

And I hate that a part of me begins to consider Daphne as a choice.

The question now is, how the hell am I going to get Daphne Whitmore to marry me?