The Marriage Debt Read online

  The Marriage Debt

  Vanessa Waltz

  Copyright © 2019 by Vanessa Waltz

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Photography by Rafa G. Catala.

  Cover design by Kevin McGrath.

  Editing by Kelley Harvey.

  Contents

  1. Naomi

  2. Graham

  3. Graham

  4. Graham

  5. Naomi

  6. Naomi

  7. Graham

  8. Naomi

  9. Naomi

  10. Naomi

  11. Graham

  12. Graham

  13. Naomi

  14. Graham

  15. Naomi

  16. Graham

  17. Graham

  18. Naomi

  19. Graham

  20. Naomi

  21. Graham

  22. Naomi

  23. Naomi

  24. Naomi

  25. Graham

  26. Naomi

  27. Graham

  28. Naomi

  29. Graham

  30. Graham

  31. Naomi

  32. Naomi

  33. Graham

  34. Naomi

  35. Naomi

  36. Graham

  37. Naomi

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Vanessa Waltz

  About the Author

  The Marriage Debt Playlist

  1.Misty - Johnny Mathis

  2.Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) - Nancy Sinatra

  3.Night Drive - Rob Simonsen

  4.Every Breath You Take in MINOR key by Chase Holfelder

  5.Diamonds - Rihanna

  6.Heathens - Twenty One Pilots

  7.Wake Up Alone - Amy Winehouse

  8.Montezuma - Fleet Foxes

  9.Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? - Amy Winehouse

  10.A Song for You - Donny Hathaway

  11.Earned it - The Weeknd

  12.Staying Up - The Neighborhood

  13.Ancora Qui - Elisa Toffoli/Django Unchained

  14.I Will Always Love You - Chase Holfelder

  15.How Can You Mend a Broken Heart - Bee Gees

  16.Hold Me Now - Thompson Twins

  17.You Know How to Love Me - Phyllis Hyman

  Naomi

  My new fiancé trapped me in his arms. I palmed his chest and faked a grin. My engagement ring’s weight seeped through my finger, poisoning my blood.

  Ethan’s arms circled my waist, body flush against mine. His lips pulled into a sweet smile that stopped short of his eyes.

  "I can’t wait to make you mine."

  A chorus of awws resounded, raising a row of goose bumps on my skin. He didn’t make me feel safe. He made me feel what he wanted. I had zero resistance against him in public. I couldn’t disappoint him without suffering.

  "I love you, babe."

  Ethan’s smile never wavered, but his eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. He wasn’t fond of terms of endearment. Hon and babe were banned from my vocabulary, except when I gathered the courage to retaliate.

  He gripped the base of my neck and closed the distance between us. Ethan’s bruising lips crushed mine. He stank of bourbon. The overpowering sweetness invaded my mouth. He held me still as we kissed, refusing to let me breathe.

  "You guys are so adorable!" A party guest slurred the compliment. People chimed in, agreeing.

  Everyone always mistook his dominance for passion.

  When we parted, Ethan’s eyes sought mine. A warning burned from them.

  Don’t screw this up.

  Ethan never punished me with violence. Outbursts of rage were beneath him when he had an inexhaustible bank account, zero conscience, and a network of powerful friends. One word from him and my father would be yanked from a promising clinical trial for his lung cancer. Ethan was on the board of directors for the hospital.

  Like it or not, my life was intertwined with his. He was inside me like hundreds of barbed hooks. Ripping him out would hurt.

  I wanted to leave him, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

  "I told you, winged eyeliner. Fix it." Ethan’s arms slid from my waist. "Don’t disappear."

  It was a threat.

  I wouldn’t vanish tonight. He expected that.

  My plan to leave was more nuanced. It would take time. I would suffer, but Dad would be safe. Ethan might take my business, but he wouldn’t touch my father.

  My smile crumbled as I walked away, leaving the party for the bathroom in the hall. Instead of going inside, I followed the corridor to an adjoining room with wall-to-wall window. I touched my throbbing skull to the cool glass.

  If he found me, I’d say I got distracted by the lovely view. The Empire State Building glittered among dozens of skyscrapers outlined in yellow light. Beautiful. My breath stilled as I gazed at the silent masterpiece etched in black and gold.

  A few seconds of quiet were all I needed before returning to my loathsome fiancé. I had minutes before he’d call my name and comb the venue, but he couldn’t see the tear tracks on my face. That would’ve thrown our happy couple facade into serious doubt. Ethan didn’t understand that I wasn’t made of iron. Even I cracked under pressure. The engagement was a setback, but I wouldn’t be his forever.

  I’d be damned if I married that monster.

  Shoes clipped toward me.

  Fuck. He found me already.

  I hitched a wide grin as I faced the intruder. The silhouette of a broad-shouldered man materialized from the darkness. One of Ethan’s lackeys, come to fetch his errant fiancée. Fear, so close to the surface these days, bubbled in my throat.

  "I’ve waited hours to get you alone."

  The man's voice broke the silence like an ax cleaving ice. It was low and gritty, nothing like Ethan's octane-fueled friends.

  I peered at the man that stood in the shadows. "Do I know you?"

  "You used to."

  An accent curled off his melancholy words, one that slammed painful memories around my mind. Images and feelings flashed faster than I could process—an unbearably hot spring, a half-naked man lounging on a hotel bed, the same man whose smile made my insides leap with joy. Five years later, the mere image of him stung my eyes.

  Oh my God.

  My throat tightened. “You.”

  "Me."

  Graham Hawthorne stepped into the light. Dressed for the occasion, a dark charcoal suit wrapped his broad frame, and a blue tie sat over a crisp white shirt. He was every bit the Viking who stole my attention. Just as handsome as the day we met, but he had changed. Time had hollowed his cheeks. The lighting cast them into harsh shadows. He was rougher. More leaned out. His Nordic features less friendly and more menacing. His thick eyebrows narrowed at the sight of me.

  This must’ve been a dream. Graham Hawthorne. The man who ground my spirit into dust was at my engagement party.

  My heart slammed into my throat. "You can’t be here."

  Graham stopped a foot away. A chill emanated from him. He looked dead. His mouth curved, and he spoke in that graveled voice I still remembered.

  I bit my lip, drawing blood. He couldn’t show up in my life. Not now. If Ethan saw him—if he knew Graham and I were a thing years ago—

  “I thought you needed a rescue."

  A thousand questions zipped through my mind, but memories of him held me hostage. He used to be everything. He was the reason I’d run into Ethan’s arms. "You need to leave."

  "I can’t let
you get married."

  My throat tightened as those words tumbled from his lips. Graham was another demon in a suit, but a long-ago flame was the perfect antidote to my misery. All that he’d done faded into the background.

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "You can’t marry him, Naomi."

  "I’ll marry whoever I want."

  He flashed a derisive smirk in my fiancé’s direction. "Him? The guy you’re avoiding right now?"

  "I’m not—I needed a breather."

  "Impending nuptials can be pretty exhausting." Graham nodded sagely, grinning. "Especially when they’re unwanted. I know Ethan. We grew up in the same circles. You’re in for a life of fine wines, whirlwind vacations, and total subservience."

  How the fuck did he know?

  Ethan was merely one of the shadows drifting over the floor, but his laugh rang out louder this time. I flinched at the sound.

  "Please go away."

  "No."

  Graham took my arm and pinned me against the wall. I shrank on the glass, heat throttling my throat. Looking at him without remembering that weekend was impossible.

  I needed him gone.

  "You promised me everything and left me with only memories." I stepped back, hands balled at my chest as though warding him away.

  Regret flashed through his tawny gaze. In an instant, it faded. Graham's eyes were diamond-hard as he lifted his hand to my face and stroked my cheek. It was hell and heaven. I wanted to cover his fingers with mine.

  God, I wanted to fall into his arms. After years of living a lie, my heart was desperate for something real even if it was choked with pain.

  "You need to come with me, Naomi.”

  Leaving my own engagement party was a declaration of war. And no one ever won a battle with Ethan.

  Graham had no idea who he was dealing with.

  "Leave before he sees you," I said.

  "No."

  "Graham, I’m begging you."

  A cork popped, followed by more tinkling laughter. White-gloved waiters streamed from the doors with iced bottles. They walked to guests, pouring the golden booze until foam dripped down the sides.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  "Would you and your wife care for champagne?" A waiter found us skulking in the darkness, his expression free of suspicion.

  "I’m not his—"

  "Please."

  A smile broke Graham’s chiseled features, softening the lines above his brow. Brilliant shades flashed, silhouetting him against colorful lights. It yanked me to a moment five years ago. Meeting Graham in that casino was like unlocking a sweet curse. Every man since him was compared and contrasted, even though we’d only spent four days together.

  "Even he thinks we’re together," he said.

  "Please stop."

  He ignored me and took two glasses, handing one to me. I wrapped my hand around the stem and watched the waiter whisk away. Graham flashed another mocking grin and clinked his drink against mine.

  "To us."

  He tipped his head back and drank. I glared at him, eyes burning with unshed tears. I fell in love with the idea of Graham, but the real thing was nothing like my imagination. Graham was an asshole.

  I gripped the stem hard enough to snap it. Four wonderful nights and days. He’d crushed me.

  I’d never love again. "I’ve had all I can take. Get out of my face."

  “No.”

  Graham blocked my path. I dared him to grab me. Why did that possibility thrill me?

  "Why are you doing this?" I hissed. "Haven’t you hurt me enough?"

  "I’m not here to hurt you."

  "I’m marrying Ethan."

  He glowered at me. "I can’t let you do that."

  "Why? Are you in love with me?"

  A grin broke his cold mask. Dimples carved into his cheeks, a mockery of the smiles that used to fill me with warmth.

  "Then what the hell do you want?"

  “Because five years ago, you became my wife.”

  Graham

  (One Week Ago)

  "Who is this?"

  The mysterious woman with a thick, Italian accent clicked her tongue. "Your mother gave me your phone number. She didn’t tell you I’d call?"

  Mom never does. "Of course."

  The caller was the third old money heiress, duchess, or Hollywood starlet who'd called me this week. Mom was fucking relentless. I was thirty-three, and she was determined to see me married to someone with a royal pedigree that wrapped around the moon — a girl worthy of becoming a Hawthorne.

  Unfortunately for Mom, I never did what I was told. I didn’t care about protecting my lineage. My future wife’s blowjob technique was more important than her ancestry.

  "My name is Anelise Flora Vittorio," she continued, the accent on her r’s so strong I winced. "I am from Italy."

  No shit. "You sound like a lovely girl—"

  "I’m thirty."

  "I’m not interested."

  "You don’t even know who I am."

  I sighed. "You’re an Italian princess, a hedge fund manager, or the fucking head of an oncology department for all I care. Whatever you are, I’m sure you’re a catch. Mom has never sent anything less than perfection my way." I took a deep breath, preparing for her inevitable freak out. "But the fact is I don’t like being set up. I’m a man. A very independent man."

  "Perhaps you should tell your mother that."

  "Yes, well. It’s been fun."

  Her tone chilled faster than liquid nitrogen. "Goodbye."

  I ended the call without a response and flipped the screen over. I’d get an irate text from Mom in the morning, badgering me for insulting the Duchess of Sicily, or whatever. I deserved to be chastised.

  Old-money circles were small. My contact list ranged from princes in Saudi Arabia to East Asian billionaires to tech and real estate moguls in the United States. Pissing off one of them usually meant alienating a few more, and when you needed friends in high places to launch your latest capitalist scheme, that was dangerous. But I didn’t care about all that nonsense for once.

  My sister wasn’t talking to me.

  Three missed calls from my publicist, two urgent emails from my lawyer, another message from the New York Journal, and my sister was all I thought about. Blair and I had never gone this long without a text.

  I loved her dearly. Blair was my only link to healthy relationships. Mom was a train wreck, and Dad was a narcissistic bully. My social circles were too strained and tight-lipped. I trusted no one but Blair, but everything fell to shit when she met Liam. My sister's boyfriend was—used to be—my best friend. I found out he was dating my sister and reacted poorly. One big mistake with Liam was enough to derail my life.

  It didn’t matter how many sorry’s I texted Blair. Something had broken between us. A wound still throbbed in my chest and bled every time I pictured my sister’s face. She’d lied to me, and I had a low tolerance for betrayal.

  But I missed her too goddamned much.

  I dialed her number. "Please pick up."

  It clicked. Hope surged.

  "Blair cannot come to the phone right now. At the tone, please leave your name and message."

  My spirits sank. Then the screen flashed with another call. Maybe Blair had a change of heart.

  I answered. "Hello?"

  "Mr. Hawthorne. Finally."

  The nasal voice was a far cry from Blair. I frowned at the screen.

  "Mrs. Pierce." Fewer things annoyed me more than a call from my publicist. "What is it?"

  Ashley was a fifty-year-old savvy publicist who could clean up practically any PR disaster. "I texted you 9-1-1 five times, Graham."

  She was also refreshingly low on bullshit.

  "I wasn’t in the mood for bad news."

  "You need to answer when I call, or you will be out of a publicist. Ignoring a fire is bad for both of us, Graham. I have my high blood pressure to think about, and you have your reputation."

  I sighed, my h
ead sinking into my hands. "What is it now?"

  "The New York Journal is going to publish your marriage license unless you cough up five million."

  I couldn’t have heard what she just said.

  "Wait, what?"

  "Marriage license," she repeated, confirming I wasn’t crazy. "Honestly, I don’t know why you never told me."

  Extortion from the Journal wasn’t anything new. Not a week went by without someone trying to fuck me over, but since when was I married?

  "I don’t have a wife, Ashley."

  "You do," Ashley said, an image popping onto my iPhone. "I looked it up myself. Your marriage license was listed in the Las Vegas public record. You eloped five years ago and never mentioned the girl."

  I put the phone on speaker and dropped it onto the table. I stared at it as though it were a live snake. "What?"

  "Jesus, Graham. Enough with the selective amnesia!"

  "I'm not bullshitting you. I have no idea what you're talking about." I licked my lips. "Did you say Vegas?"

  "Yeah. The certificate is dated March 15th, 2014."

  Vegas was enough to conjure an image of the most seductive woman I’d ever known. Naomi Watson. Gorgeous from head to toe. A sparring tongue that turned me on. She was different from all the others. She wasn’t shy, and I liked that. Women were a lot of things around me, but they were never fearless.

  I’d memorized every mole and freckle on her body because I'd spent the weekend fucking her brains out. Five years ago, I met the woman of my dreams. We were supposed to meet at the airport—

  "Did you forget you were married?"