Chapter Eight — The Heir and the Wedding Planner From Hell

Keya:

The guards don’t even bother asking if I want to go in. One of them just opens the door, the other gives me a shove, and suddenly I’m standing in a room I really, really don’t want to be in.

DiCaprio’s parents are here.

And judging by the way his jaw tightens when he sees me, he doesn’t want me here either.

“Sit,” his mother says, pointing to the empty chair beside her son.

“I—”

“Sit.”

I sit. Mostly because two armed guards are still behind me and partly because the woman’s tone could cut through steel.

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