Trust Fund Fiance - Naima Simone Page 0,6

just didn’t stop. Didn’t give her a chance to breathe. To make a single decision for herself.

Since she’d turned twenty-six five months ago, he’d been on this relentless campaign to see her married. Just as her brother had. As her sister had only a year ago.

It was all so ridiculous. So damn antiquated. And stifling. She could find her own goddamn husband, if she wanted one.

Which she didn’t.

She loved her parents; they’d always provided a more-than-comfortable home, the best schools, a good, solid family life. But her father was definitely the head of the household, and Henrietta Sinclair, though the mediator and often the voice of reason, very rarely went against him. While the relationship might work well for them, Reagan couldn’t imagine allowing a man to have that much control over her.

Besides, she’d done that once. Let a man consume her world—be her world. And that had ended in a spectacularly disastrous display.

No, she didn’t want a husband who’d give her a home and his shadow to live in.

“Dad, I appreciate your concern, but I wish you and Mom would stop...with the matchmaking attempts. I’ve told both of you that marriage isn’t a priority for me right now.” If ever. “I’ll show up for dinner tonight, but don’t expect a love match. While Devon Granger may be nice and husband material, he’s not my husband material.”

Poor Devon. His most interesting quality had been providing a distraction from Tracy Drake, seated on her other side. And since the notorious gossip had spotted Ezekiel Holloway following Reagan and her father back into the house within moments, she’d been chock-full of questions and assumptions. The woman had missed her calling as a CIA agent.

Her father scoffed. “A love match.” He shook his head, exasperation clearly etched into his expression. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not anticipating a proposal at the end of the evening. I just want you to at least give him a chance.” He glanced at his watch again, impatience vibrating off him. “As your father, I want to see you happy, settled. With a husband who can provide for you.” He flicked the hand not holding his briefcase. “Don’t be naive, Reagan. Do you think people aren’t talking about the fact that your sister, who is three years younger than you, is already married? That maybe there’s something—”

“I’m not Christina,” she interrupted him, voice quiet and steady in spite of how hurt trembled through her like a wind-battered leaf. She knew what lay on the other side of that something. And she didn’t need to hear him state how their friends and associates whispered if she was faulty in some way. Or to hear the unspoken concern in her father’s voice that he wondered the same thing. Except swap out faulty for broken.

“I’m not Doug either,” she added, mentioning her older brother. “I have my own aspirations, and marriage isn’t even at the top of that list.”

“God, not that again—”

“And if you would just release the money Gran left me, I could further those goals. And a life of my choosing. Filled with my decisions,” she finished, tracing the faint childhood scar on her collarbone. Trying—and failing—not to let his annoyed dismissal of her wants puncture her pride and self-esteem. By now, both resembled a barroom corkboard, riddled with holes from so many well-meaning but painful darts.

“We’ve been over this, and the answer is still no,” he ground out. “Your grandmother loved you so much she left that inheritance to you, but she also added the stipulation for a reason. And we both know why, Reagan.”

We both know why... We both know why...

The words rang between them in the already warm morning air.

A warning.

An indictment.

Oh yes, how could she forget why her beloved grandmother, who had left her enough money to make her an instant millionaire, had added one provision in her will? Reagan couldn’t access the inheritance until she either married a suitable man or turned thirty years old.

In order to be fully independent, to manage her own life, she had to chain herself to a man and hand over that independence or wait four more years before she could...live.

It was her punishment, her penance. For rebelling. For not following the Sinclair script. For daring to be less than perfect.

At sixteen, she’d done what most teenage girls did—she’d fallen in love. But she’d fallen hard. Had been consumed by the blaze of first love with this nineteen-year-old boy that her parents hadn’t approved of. So when they’d forbidden her