HONOR ME

EIGHT

SKYLER

"Utter embarrassment, Sky. Do you have any idea how ashamed I felt?"

My mother's voice had been drilling into my head since the second I stepped through the front door, and ten minutes later, she was still going.

"And you don't even feel an ounce of remorse," she scoffed.

I let out a slow yawn, unable to hide my boredom.

"Is this supposed to be interesting?" I asked. "Because it's really not."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You're unbelievable."

"I'm not marrying a disloyal gold digger, Mother," I said, my patience finally wearing thin. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"BULLSHIT."

The word echoed through the room.

"You signed the contract. You made adjustments. You agreed to the terms. So you will marry André."

There was the Pamela McCarthy everyone knew.

The woman who smiled perfectly for cameras.

The woman who knew exactly how to charm a room, how to make people believe she was kind, graceful, and untouchable.

But nobody knew this side of her.

Nobody knew how quickly that perfect smile could disappear behind closed doors.

Nobody knew how easily frustration consumed her.

Nobody knew how much pressure money could put on her until she snapped.

Fortunately for her, there were no cameras here.

No audience.

No image to protect.

And when money was involved, everything else became irrelevant.

Including me.

Was I happy?

Did I want this?

Did I care about walking into a marriage with a man who had already proven he wasn't exactly what I thought he was?

She couldn't care less.

The only thing that mattered was the deal.

"Do you understand the English I'm speaking, Skyler?"

I stared at her.

For a moment, I wanted to argue.

I wanted to tell her exactly how unfair this was. How she was forcing me into something I never wanted.

But I was tired.

Tired of fighting battles where the outcome had already been decided.

So I simply nodded.

"Good."

She turned away, already finished with the conversation.

"I've invited the Larsens over for dinner tomorrow night."

My eyebrows lifted slightly.

Of course she had.

"Get yourself a suit," she added coldly.

Then she walked away, leaving me standing there with the weight of a marriage I never asked for settling heavier on my shoulders.

**ANDRÉ**

I could have sworn I heard Skyler call my name.

"Skyler?"

The name slipped out before I could stop myself.

I stood there for a moment, staring into the quiet room.

Nothing.

No footsteps.

No response.

Just silence.

I ran a hand through my damp hair, trying to shake off the strange feeling.

Was I imagining things?

Or was my mind simply filling in the blanks from a night I couldn't remember?

I stepped out of the bathroom, a towel secured around my waist, water still dripping from my hair.

The night before was a blur.

A drink.

A conversation.

A familiar voice.

Then... nothing.

I reached for my phone on the console by the bedroom door.

One missed call.

Mother.

What the hell did this woman want now?

I returned the call.

She answered on the first ring.

"What in tarnations have you done? Rhea Morgan. RHEA FREAKING MORGAN?"

I frowned.

"What about her?"

"You haven't seen the headlines. 'André Larsen Chooses Rhea Over Skyler.' 'Rhea Morgan versus Skyler Smith.' There are so many damned stories."

"I woke up this morning with a hangover. I can't recall anything from last night."

"Well, the rest of the world certainly can."

Still listening to her ramble, I made my way downstairs toward my office.

Halfway down the staircase, something sharp pressed against the sole of my foot.

I stopped.

A hairpin.

I bent down and picked it up.

Recognition hit me immediately.

Skyler.

My eyes drifted back toward the staircase.

The bedroom door...

The strange feeling that someone had been there...

"What were you thinking?" I muttered.

I slipped the hairpin into my palm and continued to my office.

The moment I logged into my computer and opened Google, my name dominated the trending searches.

**André Larsen's relationship with Rhea Morgan.**

I clicked.

Photographs of Rhea and me filled the screen.

Too close.

Too convincing.

"I'm talking to you, young man."

Mother's voice barely registered.

I was too busy staring at the headlines, trying to remember something—anything—that could explain them.

Then the line went quiet.

A heartbeat later, another voice came through the phone.

"André."

I stiffened.

"Father."

I clicked on one of the videos.

The footage made my stomach churn.

Rhea and I looked... intimate.

Too intimate.

We were drunk out of our minds, laughing like there wasn't a camera in sight.

"You do know you have to fulfil your duties as a husband."

"Yes," I answered, my eyes never leaving the screen.

I watched the last few seconds before closing the video and shutting my laptop with a quiet snap.

"I'll be with you at tomorrow night's dinner with the Smiths, just so you know."

As if I was supposed to applaud.

"I'm expecting an apology from you—to your wife and to her mother."

I let out a slow breath.

"Got it."

Without waiting for another lecture, I ended the call.

My head was already full.

The headlines.

The videos.

The missing memories.

Listening to my parents tell me how to clean up a mess I couldn't even remember making only made the pounding in my skull worse.

"Shit."

I reached out to Rhea and arranged to meet her somewhere private.

Her father's invitation-only restaurant was the perfect choice.

As a Larsen, getting an invitation wasn't exactly difficult. It was as easy as breathing.

Thankfully, Rhea was just as unhappy about the photographs as I was. At least we agreed on that.

I'd sleep with almost any woman on the planet.

But not Rhea.

Never Rhea.

She was... off-limits.

Not because she wasn't attractive—she was. But she'd always been someone I mentally filed under *do not cross*. More like a younger sister than anything else.

The private dining room remained empty until the door opened.

Rhea stepped inside, almost unrecognisable.

A silk scarf concealed most of her hair while oversized sunglasses hid half her face. Gone were the designer outfits she usually wore. Instead, she had on a simple floral sundress that blended in with any ordinary woman on the street.

Even her makeup looked intentionally uneven.

She'd even swapped her signature brown eyes for grey contact lenses.

Not even her most devoted fan would've recognised her.

She slid into the seat opposite me.

"Good afternoon. How do you do?"

"How do you do?" I replied with a small nod. "Glad you could make it."

My gaze lingered on her disguise a second too long.

She noticed.

"I know," she sighed, removing her sunglasses. "I look ridiculous. But I had to avoid the paparazzi somehow."

"Fair enough."

I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest.

She set the sunglasses on the table and cleared her throat.

"So..." she began.

"What do we do about the media?"

Rhea let out a frustrated breath and shook her head.

"My father's cybersecurity team is doing everything they can to get the photos taken down, but once something hits the internet..." She gave me a helpless look. "It's almost impossible to erase it completely."

I nodded.

"I figured as much."

"We have to control the narrative before someone else does." She paused before meeting my eyes. "The public needs to know we're nothing more than friends."

Her words hung between us.

Simple.

Reasonable.

But convincing the public would be another matter entirely.

I like where this conversation is going because it subtly tests André's feelings without him realizing it. I kept your plot exactly the same, but polished the dialogue and André's narration.

---

"Just friends."

I rubbed my temple, trying to ease the headache threatening to split my skull.

Even if we did exactly what Rhea suggested, the media would twist it into something else. They always did.

Stories like this didn't simply disappear.

They evolved.

"They'll know we're just friends," I said. "But we both know they won't take our word for it."

Rhea groaned, throwing her head back against the chair.

"This is so f*****g frustrating."

"It is."

Silence settled between us before another thought crossed my mind.

"What about your father?" I asked. "Does he hate me?"

For the sake of both our reputations, I needed Albert Morgan on my side. The man had built an empire without ever staining his name. The last thing I wanted was to become the reason it was tarnished.

Rhea shook her head.

"No."

I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding.

"He still thinks you're a good man."

"That's... reassuring."

She hesitated.

"But..."

I frowned.

"But what?"

A sheepish smile tugged at her lips.

"He thinks we should get married."

I stared at her.

For a second, I genuinely thought I'd misheard.

"Married?"

She nodded.

The word alone sent a chill down my spine.

Marry Rhea Morgan?

The idea was absurd.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I said flatly. "Do you?"

She shrugged.

"I don't think it's that bad."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Think about it," she continued. "We've known each other since we were eleven. We already know each other's families, habits, personalities... We'd probably have an easier marriage than most people."

I nearly choked on my drink.

"I..."

The image of another face flashed through my mind.

Freckles.

Green eyes.

A glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Skyler.

Rhea caught the hesitation.

"You don't even like the girl, do you?"

I leaned back in my chair, my expression unreadable.

"Maybe not."

The words came out quieter than I expected.

"But she's my wife."

I met Rhea's eyes.

"And that's not going to change.”

Rhea scoffed, running her tongue over her lip as she stared at me.

“Okay. It was just a suggestion, by the way.”

She grabbed her glasses from the table, slipped them on, and walked out of the restaurant without another word.

I watched her leave, my jaw tightening.

What the hell happened to being just friends?