Page 34 of Hitched to My Enemy
He didn't respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. "Fifteen years. He's been with me for fifteen years. Stanford dorm room to Vegas. I trusted him with everything."
I placed my hand on his arm, feeling the tension vibrating through him. "I know. I know how much he means to you."
His eyes finally focused on mine, raw pain visible in their steel-gray depths. "How do you even begin to process something like this? The person closest to you, secretly destroying everything you've built?"
I didn't have an answer. Instead, I did the only thing I could—I wrapped my arms around him, holding him as the reality of Bryce's betrayal washed over him in waves.
As we stood there in the half-light of his bedroom, I realized with startling clarity that I was falling in love with my accidental husband. And tomorrow, we would confront the man who had betrayed him.
Chapter Eight
Easton
The first hint of dawn filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, casting Harlow's sleeping form in gentle golden light. Her dark hair spilled across my pillow, one arm draped possessively across my chest, her breathing deep and even. I allowed myself a moment to simply watch her—to memorize the peaceful curve of her lips, the fan of her lashes against her cheeks, the solid warmth of her body pressed against mine.
Just days ago, this woman had been my professional nemesis. Now she was my accidental wife, my unexpected ally, and something far more dangerous—someone I was beginning to need.
As if sensing my thoughts, her eyes fluttered open, hazel depths with amber flecks adjusting to the morning light. Confusion registered briefly before recognition dawned, followed by something softer that tightened my chest.
"Morning," she murmured, voice husky with sleep.
"Morning." I brushed a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I should have, considering." She stretched against me, her body a delicious friction that threatened to derail my thoughts. "You?"
"In fits and starts," I admitted. The betrayal had played on endless loop behind my closed eyelids—Bryce accessing my safe, photographing the documents, the calculated precision of his movements. A friendship of fifteen years transformed into evidence of treachery.
Harlow propped herself up on one elbow, studying my face with that penetrating gaze that seemed to see through every defense I'd built over the years.
"You're thinking about confronting him," she said. Not a question.
I nodded, tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder. "I've arranged for him to come in for what he thinks is a routine budget meeting. Nine o'clock."
"How do you want to handle it?"
The question held no judgment, no directive—just the simple acknowledgment that this was my call to make. Another surprising gift from this woman who had once shown no mercy in her professional judgments.
"Directly. With evidence. No room for denial." I closed my eyes briefly, memories flooding back unbidden. "God, Harlow, I've known him since Stanford. Freshman dorm. He's the one who convinced me to pivot from tech to hospitality in the first place."
Her hand found mine, fingers interlacing with a reassuring pressure. "Tell me about him. The Bryce you knew."
The invitation to share this piece of my past felt oddly intimate—more so than the physical closeness we'd shared. I spoke without the careful filters I typically employed.
"We were roommates by random assignment. He was pre-law, I was computer science. Complete opposites on paper. But we both came from middle-class families, both had something to prove." The memories carried a bittersweet ache now. "When I launched my first startup, he dropped law school to handle the business side. Said he believed in my vision more than his own."
"And when you sold the company?"
"He followed me into hospitality without hesitation. Learned an entirely new industry from scratch. Stood beside me when you shut down my first casino." The irony wasn't lost on me—the man who'd supported me through Harlow's regulatory crackdown had been undermining me all along. "He was the best man at my cousin's wedding. Godfather to my sister's kid. Family, not just a colleague."
Harlow's expression held compassion without pity—a distinction that meant everything in this moment. "You don't have to face him alone," she said softly. "I can be there, or not. Whatever you need."
The offer struck me with unexpected force. How long had it been since anyone had asked what I needed rather than what I could provide? Even in business relationships where I held all the power, there was always an undercurrent of expectation, of performance.
"Stay," I said, the word emerging more vulnerable than intended. "I want you there."
She nodded, her fingers tightening around mine. "Then I'm there. Professional capacity or personal support?"
"Both," I admitted. "Your investigative perspective. And..." I hesitated, unaccustomed territory for a man who prided himself on always having the right words. "And I think I'll be steadier with you in the room."
