Fiancée for Rent by Elizabeth Grey
Chapter 4
Liam
My feet dangled off my leather couch as I studied the velvet box housing the engagement ring meant for Isabelle. Clutched in my fist, I rubbed my lips with the back of my hand. The brief look of bewilderment on Isabelle's face the moment that actress had kissed me was at the forefront of my memory.
The media had had a field day with the kiss. I knew Isabelle had spent her morning scouring each well-tailored word, wondering if I was with Kylie as the world did. But, the truth is, I hadn't even known the name Kylie Davis before last night.
Opening the box, the eight-carat diamond sparkled in the sunlight. Exquisite. Excessive. It matched Isabelle's taste. A subtle breeze played with my hair, much the way my memories toyed with my emotions.
As my hand fell to the floor, my head rolled to the side. I looked away from the beauty of the Los Angeles skyline as I played through the night we'd split. Eleven months ago, despite finding her sleeping with Andrew in our home, despite the lies and betrayal, I'd been ready to forgive her. That’s until her revelation that the affair had gone on for two years that she loved Andrew, not me all that time.
I never understood what heartbreak meant until that day. It was as if someone had ripped my heart out of my chest and shattered it on the floor. And after all that time, it sat there in pieces, defiant to be cleaned up, to be put together again. Moving on had been much easier than recovering from such a loss.
Grabbing the bottle of wine I'd opened for breakfast, I gulped the final swallow past my tight throat. Hearing the doorbell, my rumbling stomach praised the gods for the food I'd ordered.
When I threw the door open, I expected to see my usual geeky delivery guy. But, instead, I found myself blinking at Isabelle. She was wearing the custom-made designer dress I got her for Christmas.
"Uninvited. As if you still live here after all of these months," I let out, unable to hide my flash of anger.
"I still have the key, but I thought it would be rude to use it," she countered, her hand moving to her hip as it swayed to one side, a sign her manipulation had begun.
"Yes, it would. But it’s just as rude to show up unannounced."
"I'm here to get the rest of my stuff," she spat as she brushed past me to storm into the house.
"Well, of course. Always what you want, whenever you want.. Why should today be any different?"
She'd kept walking as if I hadn't spoken at all. Nothing new. So I followed, like I always had, when she got into one of her moods. In the bedroom, she surveyed the things she’d left behind—clothes hanging in the closet or folded up in drawers, jewelry on her dresser, shoes on a rack.
As she shoved bracelets into her bag, something raw ached inside my chest. My heart thumped, my every other breath caught. I imagined this was what the start of a heart attack felt like. We'd broken up a million times, and I'd always taken her back. But, this time, it had truly ended. I’d given up the ghost of any last hope of reconciliation.
"You didn't think to send someone? An assistant, maybe? You didn't consider that I didn't want to be here for this?"
"I wanted to come alone. To talk to you. I know you’re mad at me for what I’ve done, but the breakup wasn’t all my fault, you know. You were never home. You were always on tour," she whined in her best Hollywood enchantress voice.
"So you cheat? For years! You lied to me," I countered, spitting out each word before I huffed in a breath.
The heat of rage burned through any residual wounds, cauterizing them. I could only hope to begin the process of healing.
"What was I supposed to do?" she yelled back, drama queen extraordinaire, as she threw her hand up in the air, swinging a pair of black strappy heels around.
I flinched when they moved in my direction, but she only smirked as she shoved them into the bag. She'd never been careless with her things. Hell, she'd never packed anything for herself before. I knew this was all for show. Some poor soul would be instructed to toss this bag once she got it home. For all she knew, they may not have even been hers.
"I was alone every night," she went on, turning to scan the room for anything else to shove in her bag dramatically. She stopped mid-turn, frozen in place, reminiscent of last night.
I watched her blink a few times before I followed her gaze. She took a few swift steps toward the table where I'd tossed the box that held her engagement ring. Opening it, an audible gasp escaped her lips, brought a smile to mine for a second before my thoughts caught up to wipe it away.
"It's beautiful, Liam," she exclaimed. "Who's it for?"
By the high-pitched squeal to her tone, she suspected it had been for her. Here I'd been caught with it out after all of this time, cementing the knowledge I'd wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. An inner snarl rose, knotting my stomach. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
"Not for you. That's for sure."
"Don't tell me it's for that second-rate actress at the awards show last night," she mused as if she'd called my bluff.
"Her name is Kylie, and you need to leave."
"Is it for her?" Isabelle snapped, her voice having gone down an octave as she slammed the box shut and threw it at the table.
"Yes!" I let rip before my brain caught up with my mouth.
"Are you doing this to get back at me?" she spat as she closed the distance between us.
A hit of her signature perfume accosted my nose. Standing so close, my body remembered the way she felt pressed up against me.
When I said nothing, she threw out words, her hot breath bathing my face. "This is crazy, Liam."
"Is it? The world doesn't revolve around you. People get married every day for reasons that have nothing to do with Isabelle." Each syllable had felt like a release of some valve inside me, so I let them continue to rip. "Now, get your stuff and get out of my house."
She stood before me, chest heaving, eyes wide, so I brought down the ax, because no one spoke to her this way.
"Now. Goodbye."
As soon as the door slammed behind her, I ripped my phone from my pocket and sent an emergency meeting text to my manager, Jake.
My pizza arrived with Jake, who stood there munching a slice when I opened the door. While I'd appreciated the laugh, I couldn't say the same for the poor, befuddled delivery guy. However, I killed the mood before we even got to the living room, thankful I could cut to the chase with Jake.
"I don't get it. Why is she acting so crazy?” I asked, mouth full before I finished chewing and swallowed.
"You know, asking Kylie out might not be a bad idea if you want to get Isabelle back," Jake offered, snatching a napkin from the top of the box.
"I don't want her back," I tossed out as I threw the box on the counter, eyes narrowed to let him know I meant it.
My fingers brushed over my lips as I turned to grab beers from the bar cabinet.
"If you say so," he said with a laugh, calling my bluff. "Still, hear me out. Dating Kylie might not be the worst idea. It may even help your image if you date one woman exclusively for a while. Lay low."
Events that had tarnished my image offered themselves up in my mind for inspection. The latest, the worst, took front and center. I could still conjure up the crack of my fist as it hit the jaw of that paparazzi. And just in case I ever forget, the whole thing was captured on video.
I'd fucked up. No if, ands, or buts about it. Violence had never been my way. In my pathetic defense, the guy had been in my face, and I'd been a bit south of drunk. No matter how much I'd pleaded with him to stop, he'd continued harassing me and my date for a picture. He went too far when he tried to point his camera up under her skirt. Joking or not, I'd failed to see the humor and lost my shit.
I'd hit first. A rock star hits a member of the press, and game over, end of story, nothing else mattered. None of it would've happened had I not relied on alcohol so much to get me through the nights. My endless displays of drinking and bed-hopping had culminated in that video, losing me sponsors and contracts. A major retail company had dropped my line of clothing. I'd been canceled as one of the celebs to present an award. Add that all up with the fact that I'd lost my motivation to write new songs, and I'd feared my record label was close to dropping my sorry ass. Liam Hendrix was about to be canceled.
"Give up the grimace, dude," Jake teased, rousing me from my self-flagellation routine. "Look, I'm not saying you should marry her. Just go on one date. See how it goes. I could easily arrange it. I spoke to her manager, Cynthia, already. She's a good friend of mine."
"By good friend you mean you slept with her," I retorted to end the bulldozing.
Jake gave me a smile and a shrug but had at least shut up about the whole dating thing.
"Jesus man, who haven't you slept with?"
I laughed, looking out over my balcony. I'd never tire of the magnitude of this view. Each time I took it in, I had to give a nod to money.
"How about that kiss last night?" Jake poked.
"I'd be lying to myself if I said it wasn’t amazing—especially given Isabelle's reaction. The stream of girls I've slept with these past months had never gotten under her skin before. So, yes, I found the whole event satisfying."
"So date her. Relive the dream," he pushed.
"Sure. Why not?" I relented.
A shocked Jake stopped mid-chew.