A sharp rap on my bedroom door jolted me from a shallow, fitful sleep. I'd lain on top of the silken duvet for what felt like hours, staring at the unfamiliar shadows the city lights cast on the ceiling, my mind a frantic whirlwind of regret and fear.
"Dinner is in ten minutes."
Alexander's voice, cool and impersonal through the solid wood, was not a request. It was a summons. My stomach, already tied in knots, clenched painfully. I hadn't eaten since a piece of dry toast that morning, but the thought of food was repulsive.
"I'll be right there," I called out, my voice raspy.
I scrambled off the bed, my reflection in the dark window a pale, wide-eyed ghost. I smoothed down the cream dress, which was now hopelessly wrinkled, and ran my fingers through my hair. There was no time to change, to reapply the lipstick that had long since worn off. I looked exactly like what I was: a woman who had been crying quietly into a stranger's pillow.
Taking a steadying breath that did nothing to calm me, I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The penthouse was shrouded in semi-darkness, the only illumination coming from discreet recessed lighting that guided the way back to the main living area. It felt even more vast and intimidating at night, a landscape of shadows and sharp angles.
Alexander was waiting for me in the dining room, a space dominated by a long, brutalist slab of black oak that could easily seat twenty. He stood at the head, a single place setting laid before him. He had changed out of his suit into dark trousers and a simple, long-sleeved grey shirt that did nothing to soften his edges. He looked like a king surveying his empty court.
He didn't sit as I approached. His gaze was a physical weight, scanning me from head to toe, taking in the wrinkled dress, the lack of makeup, the undeniable evidence of my distress. His expression didn't change, but I saw the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth. Disapproval.
"You're late."
The accusation was mild, but it stung. "I… I lost track of time."
"Punctuality is a sign of respect, Elara. In business and in this arrangement." He finally pulled out the heavy chair at his right, the gesture perfunctory. "Sit."
I moved to the chair, my limbs stiff. He pushed it in, his body close behind me for a fleeting second. The faint scent of sandalwood and frost from his cologne wrapped around me, a chilling reminder of our proximity. He then took his own seat at the head of the table.
On cue, Mariela appeared from a hidden door, carrying two plates. She set one before Alexander and then one before me. It was a perfectly seared piece of salmon with asparagus and a delicate sauce. It looked like a photograph from a gourmet magazine. It smelled divine. My stomach revolted.
"Thank you, Mariela. That will be all for the evening," Alexander said without looking at her.
She nodded and disappeared, leaving us alone in the cavernous room.
The silence stretched, broken only by the precise click of his cutlery against the fine china. He ate with a focused, economical efficiency, his eyes occasionally flicking to me, noting my untouched food.
"You need to eat," he stated. "You'll need your strength."
"For what?" The question was out before I could stop it, laced with a bitterness I couldn't conceal.
He set his fork down, the sound unnaturally loud. He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, his movements slow and deliberate. "For the role you are being paid to play. Starting tomorrow."
He leaned back in his chair, his gunmetal eyes pinning me in place. "We need to establish the rules. The contract outlines the legalities. These are the practicalities."
I folded my hands in my lap to hide their trembling. "I'm listening."
"First, public perception. We will be seen together. We will be photographed. You will act as if you are in love with me. That means looking at me, touching my arm, smiling. Can you manage that?"
The question was a deliberate challenge. "I'm an artist, Mr. Vance. I can create an illusion."
A flicker of something annoyance? crossed his face at my use of his surname. "It's Alexander in public. Always. Second, my grandmother, Eleanor, is the only member of my family who matters. She is… perceptive. You will be warm, engaging, and utterly convincing with her. She believes this marriage is real. That illusion is non-negotiable."
"And what is the story?" I asked, my voice hollow. "How did we meet? How did we fall in love?"
"We met through Julian. It was a whirlwind. I was captivated by your… artistic spirit." He said the words as if reading from a clinical report. "The details are unimportant. Stick to that framework and deflect personal questions. Your family, I assume, also believes this is a genuine marriage?"
I nodded, the lie to Chloe feeling like a fresh wound. "They do."
"Good. Keep it that way. The integrity of this arrangement depends on the consistency of the narrative." He picked up his fork again, signaling the topic was closed. "Third, and most important, these are our private quarters. This is a place of business. You have your space. I have mine. You will not disturb me when I am working. You will not enter my office or my bedroom without explicit invitation. Is that clear?"
The finality in his tone was absolute. It carved the immense penthouse into two distinct, separate territories. His, and the one I was temporarily renting.
"Crystal," I whispered, my throat tight.
He gave a short, satisfied nod and resumed eating. "Your first official appearance is tomorrow night. A charity gala at the Rutherford Hotel. Julian will have a dress delivered for you in the morning. Be ready by seven."
He continued to eat his dinner, the conversation clearly over. I looked down at my own plate, the beautiful food now cold and unappetizing. The rules were set. The boundaries were drawn in steel.
I was the employee. He was the CEO of our fake life. And the performance started tomorrow.
Picking up my fork, I forced myself to take a bite of the salmon. It was perfect. It tasted like nothing at all.