Novels by Mimi

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in Maya’s guest bed, staring at the ceiling, the leather folder resting on the nightstand like a loaded gun. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the numbers. Five hundred thousand dollars per year. Two million total. Plus the bonus. Plus startup capital. Two million dollars to pretend to be someone’s wife for two years. I’d picked up the contract a dozen times. Read through sections. Put it down. Picked it up again. Article II: Obligations Public appearances as devoted spouse. Physical displays of affection. Cohabitation. Discretion. Article III: Discretion Absolute confidentiality. Violation results in forfeiture of all compensation. Article V: Termination Early termination permitted only under specific circumstances. Otherwise, two years. No exceptions. Two years of my life. Two years of lying to everyone. Two years as Mrs. Alexander Lockwood. At three in the morning, I got up and made coffee. Sat at Maya’s small kitchen table with the c

The words hung in the air like a physical presence. I want you to be my wife. For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant sound of traffic outside. “I’m sorry,” I said finally. “What?” “You heard me correctly.” “No. No, I don’t think I did. Because it sounded like you just proposed marriage.” “I did.” I laughed. The sound came out high and strange. “You’re joking.” “I’m not.” “You have to be joking. People don’t just show up at someone’s apartment and propose marriage with a contract. This is… this is insane.” “This is business.” Xander’s expression remained calm. Infuriatingly calm. “Diana, I understand this is unexpected—” “Unexpected?” My voice climbed. “Unexpected is running into an ex at the grocery store. This is… I don’t even have words for what this is.” Maya had gone very still beside me. Not speaking. Just watching Xander with an unreadable expression. “Take a breath

A week passed in a blur of rejections and silence. Twenty-three applications sent. Twenty-three rejections received. The responses came faster now, as if my name had been flagged in some industry-wide database. Unemployable. Do not hire. I’d stopped checking L******n after seeing my former colleagues posting about successful events at Veridian, carefully avoiding any mention of me. Simone had been promoted to senior events manager. My position. My title. Given to the woman who’d waited like a vulture for me to fall. The money situation was becoming critical. My checking account had dwindled to four hundred dollars. Maya kept saying I didn’t need to worry about rent, but I saw the way she looked at her own bills. Her art sales were inconsistent. She couldn’t afford to support both of us indefinitely. I’d applied for unemployment. For food service positions. For retail jobs. Anything to stop the bleeding. Nothing. Even a coffee shop had rejected me. Apparently, being accused of th

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped across my waist. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was. Then it all came rushing back. The Vault. The gallery. The sculpture. Xander. Oh God. Xander. I turned my head carefully. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been last night. Without the intensity of his gaze, he looked younger. Almost vulnerable. My body ached in places I’d forgotten could ache. Pleasant soreness, the kind that came from being thoroughly used. The sheets were tangled around our legs, and I could see marks on my skin. Bruises on my hips where his fingers had gripped. A faint bite mark on my shoulder. Evidence of what we’d done. Multiple times. My face burned with a mixture of embarrassment and something else. Something I didn’t want to examine too closely. I needed to leave. Now. Before this became something complicated. Before he woke up and we had to have the awkward morn

The gallery was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Manhattan skyline, the city glittering like scattered diamonds against black velvet. The space itself was minimal, white walls and polished concrete floors, designed to let the art breathe. And the art was extraordinary. A massive Rothko dominated one wall, blocks of deep crimson and orange that seemed to pulse with their own light. Beside it, a Pollock exploded in controlled chaos, black and white splatters frozen in motion. But it was the sculpture in the center of the room that stopped me cold. Two figures, bronze and intertwined, caught in a moment of desperate intimacy. Their bodies pressed together, limbs tangled, faces hidden in each other’s necks. The craftsmanship was exquisite, every muscle defined, every curve deliberate. It was beautiful and raw and profoundly erotic. “That’s ‘Dissolution’ by Philip Owen,” Xander said, coming to stand beside me. “He’s relatively unknown, but I think he’s brilliant.

I should have left after the third martini. Should have grabbed Maya’s hand, walked out of The Vault, and gone back to the safety of her apartment where I could pretend Alexander Lockwood was just another strange encounter in a city full of them. But I didn’t. Because twenty minutes after he walked away, a server appeared at our table with two fresh martinis we hadn’t ordered. “From Mr. Lockwood,” she said, setting them down. “He’s in the private booth in the back corner. He’d like to know if you’d join him for a conversation.” Maya’s eyes went wide. “Are you kidding me?” “Should I tell him no?” the server asked. I looked at the martini. At Maya’s concerned face. At the choice in front of me. Safe or dangerous. Hidden or seen. “Tell him yes,” I said. “Diana—” “I know. I know this is insane. But Maya, I need to know what he wants. Why he approached me. Why he said those things.” I grabbed my clutch. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, come find me.” “Fifteen minutes. And I