The Breaking Season: An Arranged Marriage Romance Read online

  I stuffed my phone into my black patent leather Hermès bag, double-checked my ruby-red lipstick, and headed for the door. With my armor in place, I left my apartment, ready to handle myself in this shitshow. Just like everything always was with Camden.

  Traffic was a nightmare. Thank god I wasn’t stuck in Camden’s limo. Though I didn’t much prefer the taxi either. My foot tapped impatiently on the floor of the cab as I texted with Lark.

  Miss you already!

  Below that message was a picture of Lark, English, and Whitley in bikinis, doing shots poolside. Bitches.

  Stop having fun without me!

  Enjoy your anniversary dinner. We’ll see you soon.

  Soon. But not soon enough. Not only did I have to endure this dinner, but I’d also already agreed to do Christmas Eve dinner with Camden’s family. I couldn’t think of something that I liked less, but Camden had insisted. So, I was going.

  Finally, the cab pulled up in front of the building. Prime was located on the thirty-fifth floor with impeccable views of Manhattan and the most expensive steak in the city. Camden had taken me here on our first “date.” The rich interior and three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine hadn’t convinced me that this wasn’t a business deal any more than it would today. I was just a new sort of client for him. A new challenge.

  I headed inside, bypassing the man at the front who greeted me. I already knew which table Camden had claimed. The one where we were most visible.

  And there he was.

  He was seated at the center table against the floor-to-ceiling glass. The panoramic view was stunning. Nearly as stunning as my husband.

  He was pure control. It was outlined in every inch of his Savile Row suit. The broad sweeps of his shoulders, the tight lines of his muscular thighs, the sharp cut of the suit to his narrow waist. His hand cradled a glass of red wine with all the delicacy of a newborn baby, but I knew that his proclivities leaned toward destruction rather than comfort.

  I forced myself to keep moving as his keen eyes landed on me in my skintight black Elizabeth Cunningham dress. They crawled over my long, lean legs; my slim hips and waist; and my perfectly perky, fake breasts—the best money could buy. Then finally—finally—to my face.

  He was blank. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. What went on in that head of his. He was calculated and strategic in every aspect of his life. But I never actually knew what he was thinking. He never yielded an inch.

  When I reached him, he stood and wrapped a possessive arm around my waist. “You made it,” he said as he pressed a kiss to my cheek.

  I swallowed. “I said I’d be here.”

  “Nice dress.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s new.”

  “I like it.”

  I stepped out of his grasp. What was he playing at? I couldn’t read him. I had no idea if he was just making fun of me. He’d made fun of my shopping habit enough over the last year. I didn’t need it on the night of our anniversary, too.

  “Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to the table. “I ordered your favorite wine.”

  The sommelier poured me a glass, and it was my favorite. I was surprised. He didn’t normally bother. Just let me order for myself. Usually vodka because being in his presence after the shit from the last year was excruciating in so many ways. I wondered what the catch was.

  “You’re late,” he said after the sommelier left.

  “Traffic.” I raised one shoulder and glanced down at my menu. A hundred-dollar steak sounded appetizing with mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese. My stomach grumbled, but I ignored it. Too many carbs. I’d be sick as a dog if I ate any of that.

  “I could have picked you up.”

  “We’ve already been through this,” I said, scanning the menu for the salads.

  The waiter appeared then with a warm smile to take our order.

  “I’ll take the twenty-two ounce forty-five-day dry-aged rib eye, medium rare, with béarnaise sauce,” Camden ordered without even looking at the menu. “Scalloped potatoes and green beans.”

  “Yes, sir. Excellent,” the waiter said, taking his menu. “And you, miss?”

  “Greek salad. Dressing on the side.”

  I offered up the menu. Camden’s eyes smoldered.

  “A salad?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m not that hungry.”

  He looked up at the waiter. “Bring her a steak, too.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said before departing.

  “I don’t need you to order for me,” I growled.

  “You need to eat. You look like you’ve lost more weight.”

  I rolled my eyes and flung my hair over a shoulder, taking a long sip of my wine. “Most people think that’s a good thing, Camden. I’ve been working out with this trainer, who coaches dancers from New York City ballet. It’s clearly paying off.”

  “Well, I’m sure your trainer will tell you that you need to eat more calories to make up for the deficit.”

  “I do protein shakes,” I said dismissively.

  “Katherine…”

  “You know I didn’t come here for you to be an ass about my eating habits,” I said evenly.

  “Fine,” he snarled.

  The conversation lapsed as we waited for our food. But I helped myself to more wine. I was into my third glass, feeling the first hints of a buzz when our food showed up. I accepted the salad first and let them put the steak down next to it. It did look good, but fuck, it was so much food. No way was I going to finish that.

  “Are you excited about the resort?” Camden asked.

  “Yes,” I said flatly. “I’d already be there if I wasn’t here.”

  Camden’s face hardened into stone. “Poor thing.”

  “I’m almost used to it.”

  “Could you cut the attitude for one night, Katherine?”

  “Me?” I asked with a half-laugh, stabbing my fork into my salad.

  “Yes, you. Do we have to fight each other through this entire dinner? Can we not just enjoy ourselves?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, Camden. Can we? Have we ever?”

  “We did in the Maldives.”

  I pointed my fork at him. “That was different, and you know it.”

  “Why does it have to be?”

  “You know why,” I ground out.

  “Because you ran back to Penn?” he spat.

  I stopped breathing. “And you ran back to Fiona,” I challenged. “I haven’t forgotten Halloween.”

  “Katherine…”

  “Why don’t we just eat before the food gets cold? Save our cheery disposition for later.”

  Camden ground his teeth and dug into his steak. The bloody thing looked like something he’d massacred in his rage rather than something that he should be eating. But the turn of the conversation just made me feel sicker. I didn’t touch the steak, just picked around at my salad. I’d lost my appetite.

  Silence lingered as our plates were cleared.

  “Dessert?” the waiter asked eagerly.

  “I’ll pass,” I said.

  Camden’s jaw clenched. “Just the check.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “I thought you liked their bread pudding,” Camden said.

  “I can’t stomach the carbs.” I shrugged. “Next time.”

  Camden paid the check while I polished off our third bottle of wine. I was feeling good now. This dinner hadn’t been half as bad as I’d thought. Not that I thought the night was going to get better from here.

  I set down my empty glass and began to rise, but Camden halted me. “Wait.”

  I sank back down and arched my eyebrows.

  Camden reached into his suit coat and pulled out a small navy-blue box with the letters HW on the front. Harry Winston. Shit.

  I froze in place, going as still as a statue.

  “Happy anniversary,” he said, sliding it across the table to me.

  “What’s that?”

  “Open it and find out.”


  I didn’t reach for it. “Why did you get me something?”

  “Because we’ve been married a year,” he said evenly. “Now, open it.”

  His command sent a shiver through me, and I tentatively reached out for the box. I had no idea why he was giving me this. We’d never exchanged gifts before. Not on birthdays. Not for our wedding. Not for anything. I hadn’t expected a gift. Did it come with strings?

  I popped the lid. Inside was a pair of obscenely large diamond earrings. They each featured a central diamond with smaller diamonds haloing around it, and then five teardrop-shaped diamonds winged out across the bottom, like feathers. They were gorgeous and must have cost a small fortune. I should have swooned over them. Instead, my stomach constricted, and the chains of our binding cinched tighter.

  “Why?” was the only word I got out.

  “I saw them and thought of you.”

  I shook my head. “You do nothing that isn’t out of your own self-interest. I know who I married… and why.”

  His eyes hardened. “You don’t accept them?”

  “I want to know what strings are attached.”

  “Why must you be difficult?”

  “You knew who you married, too,” I shot back.

  He said nothing for a moment, as if considering and then deciding to continue. A deliberate, calculated move like everything he did. “I thought we could… discuss what comes next in our relationship.”

  I swallowed. “What comes next…”

  “We’ve been married a year, Katherine.”

  “I know how long we’ve been married,” I said, clenching the box.

  I knew what he was going to say. The one thing that he truly wanted from me out of this arrangement. More than the linking of our two powerful names. More than submission in the bedroom. More than his desire to break me completely.

  “I want us to have a baby.”

  2

  Katherine

  “No.” The word tumbled out of my mouth before I could think. Before I could even process what I was saying.

  Camden coiled like a viper. He was dangerous, deadly even, when he looked at anyone like that. I should have feared that reaction, but I couldn’t respond any other way.

  I knew that I’d agreed to this. That I’d said I’d have his child, his heir to the great Percy fortune. His family couldn’t hope for one from his sister, Candice. God only knew which continent she was on at this moment.

  But even though I’d known, I’d agreed, I wasn’t ready. It wasn’t that I never wanted a baby. I just didn’t particularly care one way or another. I always thought that when I fell deeply, hopelessly in love, it would happen naturally from there. I’d want it. He’d want it. And together, we’d be happy. Not… this.

  And now, blind panic.

  I wasn’t ready to have a child. To be responsible twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for another human being. Of course, there were nannies and governesses and au pairs. All the wonderful things I’d grown up with so that my parents could fuck up my childhood past the point of repair. It was irresponsible to bring another child into this fucked up world. Especially one where the kid’s parents didn’t even like each other. I knew what that did to a kid.

  “We should talk about this,” Camden growled, low and predatory.

  I stood from my seat. “Table it.”

  He opened his mouth to argue with me, but there must have been something in my expression to stop him dead, and halt whatever planned speech he’d likely concocted for this precise moment.

  “Fine. We’ll take the limo,” he said.

  Then his hand was on my elbow as he steered me out of the restaurant.

  “Katherine,” he said as I exited the building.

  I glanced back at him in question right when a camera flashed.

  Oh. Of course. He’d wanted to warn me about the press. Had he tipped them off to let them know where we’d be? At least I’d turned to look at him. I probably looked like I adored him rather than like I wanted to bite his head off. That picture would be spread all over Page Six tomorrow.

  “Anniversary quota fulfilled,” I said, beelining for the limo.

  The driver was there, helping us into the back and angling the media out of our faces. Once we were safely inside, the door closed on the media circus. I sat back with a frown. This was my life. Anniversary dinner meant a newspaper appearance. Typical socialite bullshit.

  I leaned over into Camden and held my phone out in front of me. “Smile.”

  He didn’t, of course. But he shot the camera a devilish look. Good enough.

  I filtered the image and blasted it all over my social network. Fuck you, paparazzi. I didn’t have to abide by their rules. I would much rather post all of my own photographs than have them sell my image to the highest bidder.

  I watched the numbers tick up on the post. The comment section was out of control with anniversary congratulations. It’d be a solid post. Too bad it relayed none of my actual anniversary sentiments.

  “I don’t know why you bother with that,” he said.

  “Part of my job.”

  “Your job,” he said derisively.

  “I’m not the first socialite you’ve met, Camden. You don’t have to be a little bitch about it.”

  Camden just stared back at me. “You are in rare form tonight.”

  “And you’re exactly the same as you always are,” I spat back.

  Camden looked like he wanted to say more, but instead, he slid his phone out of his pocket and responded to emails. I was dismissed.

  I blew out a soft breath and straightened out. Camden didn’t understand my socialite status. He didn’t think that it was a real job. He’d made that perfectly clear the last year. That taking pictures and adding filters and captions to them was not in any way a real job. But I enjoyed it, and I always had. Even when technology hadn’t been quite as convenient… or time-consuming. Keeping up with social media now was an all day, ever day kind of job. No matter what he said.

  I returned to my followers and answered some of the comments from people that I immediately recognized. Answering followers was easier than figuring out my marriage. I didn’t know what to do about Camden. I’d walked into that dinner with my hackles raised. I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it had… just as I’d assumed it would.

  But before that… he hadn’t been so horrible. Maybe he’d even been trying to have a good night. That was the problem though. I didn’t ever know which Camden I was going to get when we were together. More often than not, he was the one in “rare form,” and I was the one left speechless and irritated. We were a hot mess.

  If I wanted it to keep working—if I could even say it was working—then I was going to have to give a little tonight. Maybe if I let my guard down, then he’d drop the whole thing. Except that letting my guard down was the last thing I wanted. Not when I was used to getting stabbed in the back every time I let myself be vulnerable.

  Eventually, the limo pulled up in front of Percy Tower, the flagship for the Percy hotel chain. Camden helped me out of the car and then silently guided me into the foyer. I never got tired of the beautiful, polished interior—the classic gilded look with marble floor and columns, all entranced with Christmas decorations and a floor-to-ceiling tree. We slipped through the crowded entrance filled with tourists here for the Christmas holiday, wanting to see the city at its finest.

  It was both the best and worst time to be in New York. Christmas cheer was everywhere—from the tree at Rockefeller Center to the market along Central Park to Macy’s Believe sign to the Rockettes Christmas Spectacular and The Nutcracker to ice skating. It had been my favorite time of year while growing up. My birthday was New Year’s Eve—which was good and bad, depending on what age I was—and so the Christmas season always felt like the buildup to my birthday.

  I remembered one year, when I was about twelve, my father had gotten a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park for the family that ended with
hot chocolate and the Rockettes performing just for me at Bethesda Fountain. The memory ached now. As all of my memories of my father were tinged with grief, for what he’d done and who he’d become. But I’d been a daddy’s girl all my life and losing him had been a nightmare. Losing him and my brother’s disappearance and my mother’s utter denial all in the same week had been… too much.

  I shook off the heavy memories that always came around Christmas and took the private elevator up to Camden’s penthouse.

  Thankfully, there was nothing Christmassy in sight. Unlike me during my childhood, Camden abhorred Christmas. He was glad that we were leaving the city and missing the worst of it. I’d never found out why.

  “Drink?” Camden asked as I slid my jacket off and hung it up in the closet.

  “Bubbly?”

  He nodded and reached into the wine fridge, retrieving a bottle of Moet & Chandon Rosé. Maybe he was trying to woo me tonight.

  I took out the box of diamond earrings from my pocket and carried it over to the bar. “My favorite,” I said, taking the glass from him.

  He poured himself a glass of scotch, neat. His eyes were on the box under my hand, watching me fiddle with the thing. But he said nothing. He was scariest when he was silent. His words sliced like knives, but his silence stretched like death by a thousand cuts.

  Slowly, I set my half-empty champagne flute down and opened the box. I breathed out softly and then took out the pearl earrings I had been wearing, replacing them with the Harry Winston diamonds.

  There. See. I was trying.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  Camden took a step into my personal space. His hand cupped my jaw, holding me firmly in place. My heart stuttered at the command. For a fraction of a second, I’d forgotten how dominating he could be in one touch. How he could hold me like I was breakable and then enjoy watching me shatter.

  He gently turned my head to one side, exposing the long column of my neck to him. I swallowed, telling myself that I didn’t want this, nor did I fear it. I didn’t know how much I lied to myself.