In Drunken Matrimony ✔️

Six - Breakfast With A View

Oʟɪᴠᴇʀ

"Are you on crack cocaine?"

"Excuse me?" She splutters indignantly. I only widen my eyes, awaiting an actual viable answer. "No! I'm not high on crack!"

"Huh, weird," she throws her hands in the air exasperatedly. "It was the only explanation I could come up with as to why you think this is a good idea!"

I'm not entirely sure where the tabloid got it's headline, because Hallie is anything but smart, if this elaborate scheme is anything to go on. The woman wants to save face, and has therefore requested my assistance for the next - unspecified - number of months, remaining as her husband and selling the post-wed love story to the public.

Naturally, she doesn't want to come across as a immature, and therefore she can't admit that we actually were strangers who married drunken in Vegas. Still, even if she did confess, she's still be labelled a deluded liar, considering she's spun this entirely fake story of our deeply rooted love.

She asks of me, to play a part. A doting husband. To move in with her, to accompany her with work and publicity interviews, to meet her immediate family and extended relatives. To pose and smile for the camera. Oh, and wear a fucking ring on my finger!

I can't remember who said it, but I know they're right. Bitches be crazy.

"Oliver, please, it's not," she begins.

"Not what? Completely and utterly insane?" Her lower lip trembles at my unusually sharp tone. "Hallie, we don't know the first thing about each other. What if you're a serial killer that will cut me up in the middle of the night?"

"Im not a serial killer." She sighs.

I frown. "I'm pretty sure a serial killer would say that." Her eyes widen in disbelief. "Look, besides that, you're asking me to give up my life to play a part in your crazy charade. I have a life Hallie; I can't just drop it to cater to you."

She furrows her brows curiously. "You're unemployed, broke, and back living with your parents." She points out.

"If you continue to attack me, I'm not even going to humour you." I warn, pointing a stern finger in her direction. She lifts her hands in surrender. "You're asking me to move two and a half hours away from my friends and family, to live in Oxford. Do I look like I belong in Oxford?"

She purses her lips in thought. "I know it's so much to ask of you." I offer her a look that suggests she's slightly underplaying then magnitude of the request. "But I really need you to help me. Even if it's just three or four months - all expenses covered by me and I'll even pay you for your help."

I narrow my eyes as I ponder. "And the divorce." I add.

"I will pay for the divorce." She claims hastily, patting her hands on her chest. I remain silent, observing the woman before me. She wears the same metallic blue jumpsuit that she wore for the talk show, a neckline that stoop to her navel, stealing no attention from the masses of expensive jewellery she is adorned in. The hair, which was once curled immaculately has settled to tired waves from her constant nervous fiddling.

Her pellucid blue orbs hold tightly to mine, pleading silently as they gleam with the thought of her destruction. She is begging, without having to say the very words, for my assistance. Placing down an offer that would just be ridiculously stupid to refuse.

"Three months. That's it." Her entirely body relaxes as a result of my agreement and for a second, I really think she might throw herself on me in thanks. She stands, combing her hair behind her ears with deft fingers. "I'm serious. Not a minute longer. And you deal with the humiliation of your failed marriage following that whole true love spiel."