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I return to Mark, and we do another combination. All the stress and tension I worked out before has now amplified ten-fold. I’m more riled up than when I found out I was a fiancé.
This is so fucking frustrating. But I need stop being such a damn pussy and suck it up.
I’m the fucking King. And I need to get my affairs in order, play the part, and get this shit done. I’ll need to just approach this like any other business deal or trade agreement.
Play nice and wait until the shit blows over, and then I can do whatever the fuck I want.
“One, two, three...” I grunt out while bench pressing two-hundred-fifty. Now, this is how you get those marble-like muscles I mentioned.
All it takes is a little dedication and hard work, and you can get yourself looking like a fucking Greek sculpture.
And that’s what I have to keep reminding myself of. I just need to give this arrangement some time, perfect it, and make it believable—though it’s still fake—and then I can be the King everyone wants me to be. And, hell, I guess the King I want to be to.
Soon, if it all goes according to Vivienne’s plan, everyone will be marveling at my actual sculpture someday.
I wonder what it’ll look like and if they’ll be able to get accurate dimensions. A twelve-inch cock might be hard to perfect.
“Same time tomorrow?” Mark asks, distracting me, and I finish up my work out with some stretches.
“Yeah, please. I’ll need this work out more than you know.” I laugh somberly.
It’s so fucking true, it almost hurts when I realize it.
Toweling off, I grab my stuff to leave. Looking briefly at my phone, I see four text messages all from Vivienne back to back.
There’s a press conference tomorrow morning to formally announce the engagement.
We will be interviewed, so prepare your answers. There’s a list of possible questions on your desk. Look them over.
Look presentable.
And don’t fuck this up.
God, this woman is relentless and fucking exhausting. This better work.
But here goes nothing—I am now Vivienne Taylor’s fucking doting fiancé.
