get as a result of our association. I attend a lot of events and as my fiancée, you would attend with me.”
The longing that assaulted her was like a great, dark pit opening up inside. Empty and huge, waiting to be filled. Needing it.
Parties and people and cameras. Luxury. Things that had been so absent from her life. A link to the girl she’d been, the things she’d had. This was a chance to have it again. She despised the weakness in her that wanted it. That needed it.
And yet she felt crushed by the desire for it.
There was a quiet knock on the door and Christophe came in, latte in hand. The wide-mouthed caramel-colored mug was like a vessel of life in her eyes. She hadn’t bought coffee in weeks, months maybe. Not even for the machine at home.
She took it in her hands and let the heat from the ceramic seep into her palms. “Thank you,” she murmured, her throat tight again.
Christophe smiled and made a hasty exit, as she imagined he was paid to do. Quiet efficiency.
She took a sip and was horrified when her eyes blurred with tears. She blinked hard as she swallowed the warm, comforting liquid, allowing it to soothe the pain in her chest.
She lowered the cup and looked fixedly at the swirl of thick cream on the top of her latte.
A flash of recognition mingled with the image of a headline in her mind. He’s offering you this. A way to escape. A way out.
And a way to prove to your mother that she didn’t win.
“So this would be a marriage as far as legalities go, but not … not permanent and not physical,” she repeated.
“Exactly. No one, including my father, needs to know the personal aspects of the relationship. But it is imperative we make it down the aisle. I came close once, and it’s going to take more than close to get what I want.”
She nodded. Tried to picture it. Tried to picture getting married. Funny how she’d never really thought about it before. She’d played at weddings, celebrity weddings, weddings for royalty, but she’d never once thought of her own.
Her scope had always been so narrow. She’d lived and breathed piano. Performance, composition, practice, drills … she had dreamed music. It had been her all-consuming passion and drive. And when it had faltered, her mother had always been there to push her past it. To make sure that she didn’t lose focus for even a moment.
It was good in a way. She didn’t have a romantic fantasy tied to the thought of wedding. A wedding was … well, it was paper. Paper with performance added into the mix. And she did performance. At least she had done it. She’d done it well, too.
A kind of restless energy overtook her, starting in her fingertips, tingling up her arms and to her stomach. Why not do it? How was it really different than any other performance she’d given? She’d always projected a character on stage. Serene and sweet no matter what was going on inside of her. No matter if she’d been fighting with her mother or if she’d suffered a slap across the face at the other woman’s hands ten minutes before show time. She just added another layer of powder and went out on stage, smile pasted on.
“It’s a temporary arrangement. A business proposition. And I would pay you well.”
“And we would be expected to … go out. Go to parties, that sort of thing.” It shamed her that it mattered, almost more than the money. To be bathed in the glow of admiration again. Nothing felt like that. Nothing. It made her feel that she was a part of something, that she was important. That she was loved.
And she’d been so alone for so long. Hiding, hoping no one would find out what had happened.
“Yes. We would have to at least give the appearance of a courtship, even if it is a whirlwind one.”
“Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”
“Much stranger.”
“Like a mother making off with her daughter’s earnings?”
He nodded. “Or a father betraying his family to spend time with his mistress.”
And this was a chance, for both of them, to make some of it right. And maybe she was making it more than it was because right now the latte was so warm and so comforting, and the caffeine was making her feel more awake and alive than she had in weeks but it seemed slightly poetic in nature.
They had both been manipulated. Betrayed in a way. They had both lost things they had earned, things that were theirs by right, at the hands of those who were supposed to love them.
They deserved to take those things back. They both deserved to win.
“You’ll put this all in a … a contract, right?” She had learned the hard way that even her own mother couldn’t be trusted, she wasn’t about to put her trust in a man she’d only just met.
“We’ll have a prenup. Of course it won’t outline the specifics of the arrangement, as we don’t want that made public. The house will be yours upon the signing of our marriage license, money after the divorce.”
“You’ve thought this through.”
A wicked grin curved his lips. “I’m making it up as I go along, but I’ve been told I’m pretty good at improvising.”
“I would say so.”
She wasn’t. She was pretty crap at improvising, as it happened. The whole last year was proof of that.
“I’ve begun the paperwork with the bank to purchase the manor. I’ll sign it over to you once we speak the vows.”
“And the prenup?”
“My lawyer can have it ready by tomorrow.”
She felt dizzy. Her life had been stagnant for so long, nothing to mark the passing of months but a new mortgage bill in the mail. Now suddenly things were changing. She felt like she might be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
And there had been nothing but damp, dank cold for so long.
“Good,” she heard herself say. She felt as if she were hovering above the scene now, watching it all with a surreal kind of detachment.
It didn’t seem real, that was for sure. But it felt hopeful in a really strange way.
That marriage to a man she didn’t know or love seemed hopeful said a lot about the sad state of her affairs, that was for certain.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said.
“Your place or mine?” she asked, trying to force a laugh.
A dark light shone in his eyes. “I’d say yours, since it is the thing that brought us together.”
CHAPTER THREE
ETHAN could hear the music as soon as he walked up to the door of the manor. It wasn’t a classical piece. It wasn’t a song at all. Repetition and scales, the same few notes over and over again with regimented
