Was that a presumptuous comment? I'm not sure.
I also can't read anything from Mr. Brandt's expression. He's staring at me with that perfectly carved-stone face of his, unreadable as ever.
"What kind of music do you think I prefer?" he asks.
If I were being honest? I don't think you listen to music at all…
But obviously I don't say that.
"Classical music," I reply instead, and his eyebrow lifts like he's rejecting the entire idea on principle. "Or maybe not."
He looks at me with a flicker of something I can't decipher. Amusement? Displeasure? Annoyance? The man is frustratingly hard to read.
"What do you want to talk about?" he asks, stepping forward, and every instinct in me wants to step back.
But instead of doing that very foolish thing that will only make me look more foolish (yes, I'm aware that ship has sailed), I plant my feet and hold my ground as he approaches, his eyes threatening to suck out whatever sanity I have left.
Honestly, how can someone have such an intense gaze? Maybe he honed it from years of dealing with terrifying people in politics, sharpening it until it radiated pure superiority.
When he stops a couple of feet away, my heart skips.
He waits, staring—oh right. He asked me a question.
I remember telling him over text that I wanted to talk. So this must be what that was about.
"When can I… go out?" I ask carefully, watching his reaction. "I mean, I want to go to the cemetery and visit my husband—"
"Your husband?" His eyes narrow.
"My ex-husband, I mean."
His gaze grows even sharper.
"No," he says flatly. "He wasn't your husband. He never was."
I bite my lower lip and sigh.
Right. Logan was never my husband. A slip of the tongue. I'm so used to calling him that, despite the absence of romance and despite… well, the truth.
I said it out of habit, but with the way Mr. Brandt is looking at me now, it feels like I just committed a criminal offense.
"I want to visit Mr. Hansley's resting place," I correct with a small frown.
He's meticulous with details, painfully so. I get it. If we're boarding this contract-marriage ship, we cannot afford a single inconsistency in our story, or else we'll both drown on impact.
"Also, I want to meet with my assistant and handle my contract with my agency. So I'm wondering when I can show myself to the public again, or even just to the people I know. Do you think I should wait until after the wedding?"
Though I want to settle everything as soon as possible, it can wait if he thinks remaining out of sight is the best move before the announcement.
Before the president can answer, my phone rings loudly.
It's Dahlia.
* * *
I stare at the wall of my room, my mind drifting somewhere far beyond it.
Dahlia's call had been about me winning an award.
Best Song of the Year.
I'm shocked, of course. Who would have thought that after a string of tragedies, a rainbow would suddenly appear on my horizon? First, the president pulled me out of prison (and possibly out of a life sentence), and now… this. I won an award.
The awards night is tomorrow evening, and my wedding is the day after that. I suggested that Dahlia accept the award on my behalf, but she insisted it was important that I show up in person. That I should let the public see how I rose beautifully after being pushed into such a miserable pit.
I understand her. And honestly, it would be fun to see the people who turned their backs on me… see me again after they thought I was ruined for good.
Mr. Brandt stays for dinner, so I grab the chance to bring it up.
He doesn't react much when I mention the award. But he pauses and looks at me with a flicker of interest in his eyes.
Not the good kind of interest, though. More like the interest of someone who's plotting something. Like he's found an opening to scheme.
"You should go," he says.
"Why?" I ask, scooping another bite of mashed potatoes. "You think it's a good idea? I'll definitely be asked questions. Do you want me to keep quiet about us? Not hint anything to the media yet?"
I'm sitting here in a simple pink shirt and cotton pants, while he lounges across from me in semi-formal attire—tie tucked into his vest, sleeves crisp and immaculate.
It feels like we come from two separate worlds, and somehow those worlds have collided over dinner.
"No," he says. "It's the perfect chance to let the public see that something's going on between us."
I squint at him, nerves prickling.
"What are you thinking?"
Whatever stunt he's planning, I hope it won't bury my name back in the grave I just crawled out of.
"We should be seen together."