Page 72

I’ve closed nine-figure deals without my pulse shifting. I've walked into hostile boardrooms, faced down regulators, delivered termination notices to men twice my age—all of it with the same resting heart rate I maintain on a morning swim.

Today, my hands won't stop adjusting my cufflinks.

I'm standing in my bedroom at the compound—the master suite I built three years ago and have barely slept in—staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror like it owes me an explanation.

The suit is navy. A custom Tom Ford. The shirt is white. The tie is a deeper navy that borders on black. Everything fits. Everything is exactly the way Everly is selling this wedding. Meaning, it all has to be perfect.

Sure... I look like a man getting married.

The problem is, I look like a man getting married and meaning every moment of it.

"You look like a groom, but your face says, tax audit."

Damien Rockmore leans against my doorframe like he's been watching this existential crisis unfold for entertainment purposes. Which he has. His own suit—charcoal, Brioni, offensively well-fitted—looks like he threw it on without a thought.

He didn't. Damien thinks about everything. He just wants you to believe he doesn't.

"Are you going to fix that tie or do I have to?"

"The tie is fine," I tell him.

"It's crooked. Everly will kill you if you walk out looking like that." He pushes off the frame and crosses the room. Before I can stop him, his hands are at my collar, straightening the knot with the efficient disinterest of a man who's done this at enough galas to be muscle memory. "I'm about to save your life. You're welcome."

"Everly doesn't scare me."

"She scares everyone," he says with a satisfied smirk as he finishes with my tie. "There. Now you look like a billionaire getting married instead of a billionaire being audited."

"Those feel remarkably similar right now."

Damien grins. It's a grin that has made him the subject of more tabloid speculation than any tech founder has a right to be. "You nervous?"

"No."

"Liar," he grins.

"It's just a wedding. A fake one at that."

"You say that now, because you haven't seen the bride yet."

I whip a look in his direction. "You've seen her today?"

He nods. "Everly asked me to walk over to her house and get the rings for the ceremony. Aria was already in her dress."

"It's a contract," I remind him. And myself. Damien shrugs and walks back behind me to give me back my unobstructed view in the mirror. "Two signatures and an expiration date."

I meet his eyes in the mirror. He's watching me with that particular sharpness he reserves for the rare moments when he actually gives a shit.

"Sure," he says, sliding his hands in his pocket with a casual swagger that I hate. "I guess we'll find out when you see her at the end of the aisle. Just trust me when I say... you're not prepared for this."

The bedroom door bangs open.

"The groom lives!" Levi announces, arms spread wide, holding a champagne bottle in one hand and a crystal flute in the other. He's in his suit already—midnight blue, open collar, no tie because Levi believes ties are "the necktie-industrial complex's assault on personal freedom."

Behind him, Colston fills the doorway. His suit strains slightly at the shoulders because Colston is built like a man who bench-presses the buildings he constructs.

"You look good," Colston says.

"He looks constipated," Levi corrects, uncorking the champagne with a pop that makes Damien flinch. "But don't worry. That's how he always looks at important moments. Remember the IPO? Same face. Exactly the same face."