Page 78 of Fake Dark Vows

Why am I panicking?

She’s probably on her way home, wishing she’d never met me. I’ll no doubt receive the engagement ring, neatly packaged in its box, on my desk in a couple of days’ time, no explanation, no goodbye. Over and done with.

That isn’t what I want though. It’s true, I didn’t consider Rose’s feelings when I delivered the proposition to her, but I never wanted to hurt her, and the arrogant asshole in me assumed that this scenario would play out whichever way I wanted it to go.

Fake engagement? Sure, no problem.

Choose a ring, Rose.

Wear the designer clothes I bought you.

Smile for the cameras.

The difference is that people like Rose Carter don’t take these things for granted. Asking her to wear the ring as if it were nothing more than costume jewelry was like mocking her dreams. Perhaps Rose doesn’t even want to get married someday, but if she does, I’ve gone and spoiled it for her with my goddamned fake proposal.

This is why I need to find her.

I want to put things right. I want to apologize, tell her that I didn’t enter the situation lightly, and that … and that there is no one else I’d rather have shared the experience with.

I want to feel her in my arms again. I want to kiss her, fuck her, and—the timeless cliché from all good love stories—take her to heaven and back. I want to hear her groan, scream, and beg for more. I want to taste every inch of her.

Outside, my pulse is racing even faster than it was before I entered the bar, my thoughts taking me to places I shouldn’t be going right now.

I hear raised voices and follow the source of the sound with my eyes. A scuffle has broken out amongst a group of young lads on the opposite side of the road. One guy, tall, beefy, with a wide neck and buzzcut, grabs one of the other lads and hurls him into the road in front of oncoming traffic. A black Merc slams on its brakes, tires screeching across the tarmac to avoid hitting the lad on the ground.

I turn around and keep walking in the opposite direction.

A short distance ahead of me, a bachelorette party all dressed in white with pink sashes and pink crowns on their heads, are singing ‘Like a Virgin’ loudly, dancing around other pedestrians. One woman grabs the hand of a silver-haired guy in smart pants and formal shirt and swings him around while his wife stands back, laughing at his attempts to remain upright.

Everywhere I turn, people are drunk, loud, out for a good time. But good times can flip on their axis in a heartbeat, especially when copious amounts of liquor and heavy casino losses are involved. This vibrant jangling city can become a dangerous place.

I hit redial on Rose’s cell phone number—it’s still dead.

But this doesn’t sit right with me either. Rose wouldn’t cut herself off from everyone she knows—she’s too responsible for that. She’d worry that her dad or her best friend might need to contact her in an emergency.

It dawns on me then, that if Rose is going to contact anyone, it will be her best friend—what’s her name? Jo? Jess? There must be a way to find out. Julia would know how.

I scroll down to Julia’s number and hesitate. I can’t ask her to help me—she killed whatever mutual trust we’d developed over the past few years of working together when her sister sold those photos to the tabloids.

I keep walking.

I’m instinctively heading towards the chapel where Rose and I got married the night before. Was it less than twenty-four hours ago? I can picture tomorrow morning’s headlines: Has anyone seen the new Mrs. Brandon Weiss? The once eligible bachelor is more careless with his loved ones than he is with his money.

A tram trundles past and I peer through the windows for a glimpse of Rose staring back at me. I call the transit center—it’s a long shot, and I draw another blank. The next bus to New York leaves in the morning, and travelers don’t need to supply their name when they buy a ticket.

I end the call without pressing for more information. I might be fooling myself, but I don’t truly believe that Rose has run away. She’ll come back to me when she’s ready, once she has processed Damon’s revelation and decided to hear my side of the story.

I’m about to turn around and head back to the hotel to wait for Rose in our suite when my phone vibrates with an incoming call.

My stomach somersaults when I check the caller ID.

Not Rose.

Julia.

I hesitate. Is it too much of a coincidence that she’s calling me now? Would Rose have contacted Julia for help rather than a close friend?

Rubbing my face with my free hand, I spot a young guy with a lurid red Mohican and spears through his nose heading towards me and hit the green button.