Deceitfully Yours

10.

The moment Tristan's right hand came around the small of my back, I stiffened.

"You're too tense," he prompted, leaning in. "Ease up. Whatever I am paying you for starts this very moment and I expect you to act accordingly."

"I'll try my best," I said, fighting the palpitations in my chest. He smelt so good.

"Good." He tugged me close.

Inside the restaurant was a testament of luxury. It was lavishly decorated and embellished with subtle lighting that complemented the tasteful designs displayed on the modern walls.

"This way," Tristan urged, leading me to the receptionist's desk when a voice interrupted our movement.

We turned, taking in the skinny, grey-haired man adorned in a black three-piece suit approaching us with a wide grin on his face. "Mon Dieu! Tristan Larsen!"

Tristan let go of me and extended a hand toward him and I watched the apathetic expression fade as the corner of his mouth kicked up an inch, shifting and shifting until it twisted fully into a smile that was quite frankly astonishing to see.

"Uncle Zachary, it's been a while."

"A while? Oh, no son. It's been forever! You abandon me here. You don't even come to visit your old papa anymore." He scolded with a thick French tone that made it nearly impossible to understand him.

They shook hands and he inclined his head in my direction, his deep-set eyes brimming with curiosity as they accessed me. "And who pray tell, is this Belle femme you bring with you to my place?"

Tristan put his arm around me and pressed a brief unexpected kiss to my temple, one that nearly made me choke on my spit. "This is Sienna, my wife-to-be."

His eyes flashed with amusement. "Good heavens, la fiancée?"

Heat crept up my spine. I soothed my hand down my dress to wipe my sweat before stretching it out for a handshake. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Zachary."

"Oh, you are so lovely." He took my hand and bowed over it to bestow a gentle kiss on my knuckles. "Welcome to ma famille. I must say, you are one beautiful Princesse, my grand nephew must have exquisite taste."

A genuine flush crept into my cheeks. I smiled brightly. "Thank you so much, Mr. Zachary, you are too kind."

He straightened, smiling, nodding. "It is a pleasure to host both of you." He shifted his gaze to Tristan. "Arthur must be happy, his wish is finally coming true."

Tristan smiled but I didn't fail to notice the lack of depth behind it. "Indeed."

"Oui. Come, come, I find a special table for both of you."

The place he walked us to was a secluded space decorated with candlelight and fresh flowers. This was far too intimate and romantic for a dinner with someone I barely knew.

There was a rectangular table with a golden cloth draped over it sitting in the middle of the room. Tristan pushed one of the chairs out for me and gestured with a smile that I sit. I did accordingly and when he did the same, Zachary clapped his hand.

Several formally dressed waitstaff entered the room, silently and ceremoniously setting a variety of dishes on the table. One ladled what appeared to be white soup onto my plate, while another filled my glass with wine.

"Here you sit and enjoy your amuse-gueules," Zachary spoke, smiling down at the table. "I bring you the best food and wine and we celebrate our Belle épouse."

"Thank you," Tristan smiled. "We will do well to enjoy every single meal."

"Bien sûr!" Another amused clap and he was out of the room along with the waiters who had filled in.

Silence descended like a dark plague.

I reached for the glass of wine poured for me and took a sip, savoring the taste of the liquid as it lingered on my tongue.

Tristan raised one of the napkins and placed it around his neck.

"Did you choose this restaurant knowing your uncle owned it?" I asked to fill the chasm of unnerving silence.

He grabbed his silver spoon and dipped it into his soup and after a pregnant pause, he said. "Granduncle."

His reply was prompt and he didn't make an attempt to offer any more information. He simply scooped a spoonful of soup and took it into his mouth.

"Why exactly do you need this marriage?" I asked, gauging for more information but he remained focused on his soup, sipping slowly.

"I asked you a question, Larsen."

"Of which I am not obliged to answer."

I sighed. "If we're going to be getting married, don't we at least need to know things about each other? I know nothing about you and you know nothing about me."

"I know enough."

My lips thinned. "You only know my name."

His reply was cryptic. "It will do."

I sighed, refraining from rolling my eyes at him. "But what about me? I barely know your full name, and trust me, I did my research. All I found was that you're a tech billionaire who owns a significant chunk of Manhattan. It didn't say anything about you. Who you are as a person."

"Perhaps there is a reason for it."

I frowned. "Do you always have to be so difficult?"

Wiping both sides of his mouth, he looked up at me impassively. "I am a very private man, Ms. Bardot, I protect my privacy at all costs, and I don't subscribe to the idea of getting too personal with the woman I purchased temporarily."

My stomach dropped. This man was outright savage. "That's a harsh way to put it."

He took a roll of bread out of the fancy bread basket, eyeing me. "It's fitting."

I clutched my fists, angry because deep down I knew he was right. "Look, I know this isn't an ideal situation for you. It's not for me either but we're bound together for the next six months, so it will do us a lot of good if we try to at least get along and know each other better."

When he said nothing for the next minute, I exhaled. "Tristan-"

"Mr. Larsen to you."

"Mr. Larsen." I corrected. "Take this seriously. What if I get asked questions by your family?"

"No one is going to ask you anything." He said tersely, paying more attention to his soup than me, a clear show that he wasn't interested, but the defiant part of me fought for more information. I needed to know the man I was going to be married to.

He didn't seem too thrilled with the idea of marrying me and he was lying to his family holding a fake wedding. All for what?

"Still," I pressed on. "I need to be prepared. We need to talk about things like your family, your hobbies, things you like, closest friends, places you-"

He dropped his spoon with a harsh thud, shutting me.

"Do you also want to know how many women I sleep with?"

I blanched, taken aback by his senile retort.

"Would you also like to know how many times I take a goddamned piss in a day?"

I recoiled, scrunching my face in disgust at the mental image he just rudely forced into my head. "You're terrible."

He nodded to my food. "Eat."

"We're not done, I-"

"Ms. Bardot, eat."

Ugh!