Chapter 2 - The Price of a Promise
“Yes,” the stranger said. “The debt disappears.”
Abigail Preston stood beneath the weak porch light and stared at him.
“All of it?”
“All four hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
“And my father never borrows from Simon Wexler again.”
Walter flinched behind her.
The stranger’s expression changed slightly. Perhaps he had not expected her to negotiate.
“I can’t promise what your father chooses to do.”
“Then there’s no marriage.”
“Abby—”
She spun toward Walter.
“Not one word.”
Her father stopped.
Abigail turned back to the stranger.
“If Simon Wexler wants me to become his wife, then my conditions are part of the agreement. The debt disappears. My father is permanently barred from borrowing another dollar from him or anyone working for him. This house stays with Tommy and Rose. Their school expenses are protected until they’re eighteen.”
The man studied her.
“You negotiate quickly.”
“I’ve had to raise two children while my father destroyed himself. I learned.”
Walter looked as though she had struck him.
Abigail did not care.
The stranger stepped onto the porch and made a phone call.
It lasted less than thirty seconds.
When he returned, his answer was simple.
“Mr. Wexler agrees.”
Abigail’s stomach dropped.
Some desperate part of her had expected Simon Wexler to refuse.
Instead, twenty-four hours later, she became his wife.
The ceremony took place inside a private Catholic chapel on the Wexler estate outside Philadelphia. There were white roses, violinists, expensive champagne, and nearly one hundred guests who behaved as though Abigail’s sudden appearance beside Simon was perfectly normal.
Simon Wexler looked exactly like the stories about him sounded.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
Thirty-four years old, tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a black tuxedo that probably cost more than Abigail earned in six months.
He barely touched her during the ceremony.
When the priest told him he could kiss his bride, Simon rested one hand lightly against her waist and kissed her forehead instead.
The gesture confused her more than cruelty would have.
Hours later, Abigail sat alone on the edge of his bed.
The bedroom overlooked the river, moonlight spilling through open French doors. Her wedding gown spread around her like ivory water.
She was still wearing her veil.
She had been waiting twenty-three minutes when the door opened.
Simon entered alone.
He removed his jacket.
Then his cuff links.
Abigail’s fingers tightened around a handkerchief.
Simon noticed.
“You’re frightened.”
“No.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“Then you destroy handkerchiefs recreationally?”
She looked down.
The lace was twisted between her fingers.
Despite herself, she almost smiled.
Simon poured himself a drink.
He did not offer her one.
“My attorney explained the agreement?”
“Yes.”
“You understand your father’s debt has been erased?”
“Yes.”
“Your siblings’ education has been funded through trusts Walter Preston cannot access.”
Abigail looked up sharply.
“That wasn’t in the agreement.”
“No.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Because children shouldn’t pay their father’s gambling debts.”
Something in her chest shifted.
Simon turned toward her.
“And neither should daughters.”
For the first time that evening, Abigail truly looked at him.
“Then why marry me?”
Simon’s expression hardened.
“Because I need a wife.”
“That explains marriage. It doesn’t explain me.”
Silence.
Then Simon approached.
He stopped several feet away.
“My grandfather’s trust transfers controlling interest in Wexler Maritime to me only after I marry. Until then, my uncle controls enough voting shares to dismantle everything my father built.”
Abigail blinked.
“So this is business.”
“Yes.”
Relief should have come.
Instead she felt strangely insulted.
Simon noticed that too.
“You expected romance?”
“I expected something more sinister.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then the amusement vanished.
“Your father assured my people that you understood what kind of marriage this was.”
“My father assured your people whatever kept him alive.”
Simon studied her.
“He also told me about your history.”
Abigail went still.
“What history?”
Simon took a drink.
“The men.”
Her fingers loosened around the handkerchief.
“What men?”
“Abigail.”
“No. Say it.”
Something in her voice made him hesitate.
Simon finally placed the glass down.
“Your father said you had several relationships. That discretion would therefore be important to you.”
Abigail stared at him.
Then she laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because otherwise she might scream.
Simon’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“My father told you I had a scandalous past?”
“He provided names.”
Her laughter stopped.
“What names?”
“Evan Ross. Daniel Mercer. Thomas Hale.”
Abigail’s face drained of color.
Simon saw it.
And misunderstood.
“Those names mean something.”
“Yes.”
Her voice became dangerously quiet.
“Evan Ross was my mother’s oncologist.”
Simon froze.
“Daniel Mercer was my professor at Temple.”
A cold sensation moved through Simon’s chest.
“And Thomas Hale?”
Abigail looked toward the moonlit balcony.
“My cousin.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Simon’s expression changed.
“Your father said—”
“My father lied.”
“Why?”
“Because he was afraid you wouldn’t want me otherwise.”
Simon stared at her.
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if you know my father.”
Her eyes glistened.
“He thought a man like you wouldn’t believe a twenty-four-year-old woman had spent the last three years working, studying, and raising her siblings instead of dating.”
Simon’s jaw tightened.
Abigail stood.
“I have never had a boyfriend.”
His face became unreadable.
“I have never slept with anyone.”
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
Simon looked away first.
For perhaps the first time in years, he did not know what to say.
Abigail reached behind her neck and struggled with the veil.
Her hands were trembling.
Simon moved instinctively.
She recoiled.
He stopped immediately.
That reaction told him everything her words had not.
“You thought I expected something tonight,” he said.
Abigail swallowed.
“You bought my father’s debt.”
“I didn’t buy you.”
“That distinction wasn’t very clear yesterday.”
Simon stared at her for several seconds.
Then he walked to the door.
He opened it.
Abigail’s heart hammered.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
She blinked.
Simon looked back.
“This marriage may have started as a transaction, Abigail, but you will never have to earn your place in it with your body.”
Her lips parted.
“I’ll use the guest room.”
He stepped into the hallway.
Then stopped.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow morning, your father and I are going to have a conversation.”
Fear replaced her surprise.
“Simon.”
“He lied to me.”
“Please don’t hurt him.”
Simon looked at her.
Something almost tender appeared behind the anger in his eyes.
“I didn’t say I was going to hurt him.”
The door closed.
Abigail stood alone.
But in the hallway, Simon pulled out his phone.
“Find out everything Walter Preston has told us about his daughter.”
A pause.
“And Simon?”
His security chief waited.
Simon stared through the darkened windows.
“Everything.”
By sunrise, he would learn that Walter’s lies about Abigail were not designed merely to secure the marriage.
May you like
They were designed to hide something.
And someone else had paid Walter Preston to tell them.
