“From then on, I knew I was more or less on my own. My nanny helped me film my fashion and makeup tutorials, and I started my channel. Still, my whole life has been lived in the shadow of these scary men, always on the perimeter. Dad hired a bodyguard and acted like that made him Super Dad.
“Then last year, my father brought me into the conference room at his studio, where a scary-looking man informed me that I was going to marry his son in six months, or my father was going to lose everything. The drug cartel was going to take his studio, which was making a decent income by that time, away from him. Instead, my father worked out a deal. I would marry the kingpin’s son, Louie, who’s a big deal in his own right. Art fraud, weapons smuggling, all kinds of shady shit. I wasn’t interested. But I could see they were serious. And I knew my father would never give up that studio to save me; he’d always be protecting his ass first. So instead of saying no, I took the path of least resistance. These men were terrifying. I knew that even if they took everything away from my father, that they’d never leave me alone. So I said yes, and insisted on planning the whole thing: the wedding, the honeymoon, everything. My instincts were correct; I was mostly left to my own devices by making a big show of how much I enjoyed all that work.
“So, when Sierra told me she wanted to have a baby on her own and wanted to do it outside of the scrutiny of her own unimpressive family, I hatched the plan. I made arrangements to get the hell out of the U.S. earlier than planned. And we used the honeymoon package I’d booked with Louie’s money for ourselves. And that’s how I ended up a runaway bride.”
So many things happen inside me all at once. Gratitude that she confided all this to me. Shock at this unbelievable story. And an overwhelming need to never let her leave my sight ever again.
And, finally, the need to tell her the truth.
Chapter Eight
Jax
I wait for the inevitable bad reaction. Disbelief. Revulsion. Terror. A distancing away from me out of self-preservation.
But Brooks doesn’t do any of that.
He simply asks, “Are you safe now?”
This simple question—these four small words—speak volumes more than any time in my life that I’ve ever heard anyone tell me they love me. Other than Sierra and my nannies, I’ve rarely felt believed, understood, and seen. And then the stupid tears well up, and I have to will them away.
My voice cracking, I answer, “For the first time in my life, I’m not being watched—either by bodyguards or by people who need something from me—and this is the first time I feel like I’m in complete control. Safe? Maybe, maybe not. In control of my life? Yeah, which is better.” I look up from the fire and study Brooks’s face. If he doesn’t kiss me or hug me now, I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe he needs a signal from me.
“Can I hug you now?” I ask.
To my shock and disappointment, he holds up his hands. “Wait. Before you decide you want me to touch you, it’s my turn to tell you something.”
Oh, no. I knew he was too good to be true. He’s going to tell me something creepy. I’ve been secretly hoping he’s a quiet geek with an affinity for crazy jungle sex, but maybe he’s been silent all this time for other reasons. Is he married? Separated? Wanted in the U.S. for tax fraud? Of course? Why else do people expatriate to a rock in the middle of the ocean? Unless…oh god…it’s something much, much worse.
But I look into Brooks’s eyes, and I know. He could not hurt anyone, not even if he wanted to.
“Here it is,” he says, finally, taking a deep breath. “I knew who you were the second I laid eyes on you.”
I sigh in relief. “You’re a follower of mine. It’s not weird; I just wish you’d let me know earlier.”
Brooks drags his hand over his face. “You don’t get what I’m saying. Let me explain.”
He then tells me about how he fell for me at the tender young age of 13. I’m grateful he leaves out the most personal “after-school-special” details of how exactly I became imprinted on his young brain. Which is more than I can say for a lot of men on the internet.
It’s all rather sweet and feels like…well, there’s no other word for it. “Kismet.”
With a furrowed brow, he repeats the word. “Kismet.”
“Yeah!” I nudge him with my foot. “We were meant to meet each other.”
“Meant to…?”
“Destiny.”
Brooks looks skeptical, then smiles. “Happy coincidence.”
“Call it whatever you want. It’s pretty incredible.”
He lifts one shoulder. “I believe in science, so I’ll call it an accident.”
“Well, I believe it science too, but an accident? That’s a bleak word.”
“A nice accident. A happy accident.”