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PROLOGUE
Zara
March 13th
“We are pleased to announce the engagement of Zara Hathaway and Jackson Pruitt. The wedding will be held on July seventh at four o’clock in the afternoon at the Botanical Garden. Reception to follow.”
I stare at the announcement in the New York Times and try not to groan. What a farce. This should be the happiest moment of my life. I should be planning the wedding of my dreams. But I’m not. Because this is all fake. However, the sparkling two-carat diamond on my finger is all too real. I was there when Jackson bought it. Fifty thousand dollars. I could pawn the ring and make a run for it, but fifty thousand dollars won’t get me far enough away from my beloved.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The mere thought of the man makes my stomach churn.
I can’t stand him and his teasing, taunting green eyes, or the way he always smirks around me like he’s the cat that got the cream. I can find a better use for his lips. Which I already have.
The thought makes me blush. I am not going to think about what Jackson Pruitt does with his lips or tongue.
I am not going to think about it for one more moment.
It’s crazy to think that I am one of the most envied women in New York City at this moment, and it is all an illusion.
There will be no wedding at the Botanical Garden.
There will be no wedding of the year.
We will not be riding off into the sunset together.
I won’t be riding anywhere unless I get a bike. Or one more night with Jackson.
Which I certainly do not want.
I have no idea how I’m going to get through the next few months as his fake fiancée without giving it all away, especially if he keeps sending me presents like the lingerie currently sitting on my bed—the lingerie that I opened in front of all our friends and family. My face is still burning with shame, but I have an idea how to get him back.
A smile crosses my face at my plan. I will drive this man as crazy as he’s already driven me.
I’m almost guaranteed it would work.
I’m going to bring Jackson Pruitt to his knees. I can picture his puppy dog eyes staring up at me, and I am counting down the minutes until I can put it into action. And then, when I’m done, I’ll ride away on a milk-white steed into the law school of my dreams because by then, he will have pulled some strings to help me get in, and I’ll be well on my way to becoming Zara Hathaway, attorney at law.
I look at the letter in my other hand.
Dear Sandra,
Do you think I should send the following to the admissions committees of the schools I am applying to?
I am writing to alert you to the fact that Jackson Pruitt, the heir to the Pruitt fortune and the man I had a one-night stand with, is not actually my fiancé.
I mean, he is technically my fiancé.
But the relationship is fake. It’s faker than the Chanel handbag I got on Canal Street last week.
We are not in love. Just the thought makes me nauseous.
Okay, so yes, we did hook up the first night we met, but trust me when I say he proceeded to get on my nerves the very next day.
I hate to say it, but he’s a grumpy, chauvinistic pig.
Yes, technically, he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen, but looks and chiseled muscles aren’t everything.
