Father's Advice

I was dressed in one of the designer dresses Simone had left. The color is navy blue, simple but elegant, with heels that my feet already throbbed in. I had my hair down. I was wearing makeup, but not much. I looked like Isla Cross.

I felt like an imposter.

Damien stood in the elevator scrolling through his phone. He looked up as I came over and something flickered in his eyes, before he hid it.

"Better," was all he said.

The ride down in the elevator was silent. The lobby was not.

Photographers were already camped out at the doors, some dozen of them with cameras poised. I went feral at the sight of them through the glass doors.

“They are always in there now,” Damien said softly. "You can get used to it."

"I can't."

His hand closed around mine. The touch was warm, strong, reassuring. "Yes, you can. Head up, smile a little, do not look her in the eye. Stay close to me."

"Damien."

"Trust me." His fingers tightened around mine. "For the next 30 seconds, trust me."

There was a roar as the doors flew open and chaos ensued.

"Mrs. Cross! Over here!"

“So how does it feel to be married?”

“I heard that you were engaged to someone else last week.”

“Mr. Cross how did you two meet?”

But the questions rained on like hail. Flashes blinded me. Bodies pressed too close. My breath shortened, panic rising.

Damien’s arm circled my waist, solid and steady, drawing me to his side. “Move,” he said, low and commanding and in some way the crowd parted.

In ten seconds flat, he had gotten me to the car, protecting me with his body as he opened the door and nearly lifted me into it by sliding in next to me.

The door closed. The noise cut off. I was shaking.

"Breathe," he said.

"I can't—that was—I didn't—"

"Isla. Breathe." He had his hand on my face, pushing me toward him. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Come on."

I did as he said, his gray eyes locked on mine, his palm hot against my purple cheek. Slowly, my heartbeat steadied. The panic receded.

"I'm sorry," I gasped. “I’m not. I am just not good at this.”

"You did fine." His thumb grazed my cheekbone, and I realized he was still touching me. We were still sardines together in the backseat, his face inches from mine.

"I froze."

"For two seconds. Then you kept moving." Softness had entered his voice, almost tenderness. "That's all you have to do. Keep moving forward."

"Is that what you do?"

"Every day." He let his grip fall away from my face, but he didn’t pull back. "The panic doesn't go away. You just get a little better at working through it."

It was the truest thing he had ever said to me. I caught a glance for a second of what lay beneath the icy surface, someone who knows what it is to be caged, observed, evaluated.

"Thank you," I whispered. “For letting me out of there.”

"We're married." His face shattered once more, walls sliding into place. "It's what I do."

The car lurched forward into traffic, and he was finally outside my space. I missed his warmth instantly, and I hated myself for it.

My phone buzzed. A text from Sophie: TMZ already has you two leaving. You look good together. Annoyingly good. I hate it.

I almost smiled. Then another text, this time from an unknown number: Enjoy playing dress-up in his world. But you and I know that's not where you belong. — M

Marcus.

My stomach turned to ice. "He won't stop."

Damien looked at my phone, read the message. His jaw turned to stone.

"Block the number," he said.

"He'll just use another."

"Then I'll handle it." His voice had turned dangerous, murderous. "Give me permission, and I'll make sure he doesn't bother you anymore."

"What are you going to do?"

His smile could have drawn blood. "Whatever it takes."

I should have been afraid of the threat in his voice if not for the fact that he was my friend. No, something dark and contented curled in my chest instead.

"Okay," I said. "Handle it."

Something came into his eyes, something predatory. "Consider it done."

***

MOUNT SINAI HOSPITAL THIRTY MINUTES LATER

My father appeared smaller in the hospital bed, grayer than I had remembered. But his eyes danced when they settled on me.

"Isla." His voice was weak but warm. "My girl."

I headed over to him in three steps and hugged him, carefully negotiating the wires and monitors. "Hi, Dad."

"Let me look at you." He drew back, looked at my face. "You look... different. Expensive."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation." He looked at me to Damien, who was hanging back by the door. "And this is the miracle worker."

Damien took a step forward and reached out his hand. "Mr. Monroe. I'm—"

"I know who you are." My father’s grip on me, however weak, was directed through a piercing stare. “The man who married my daughter in Vegas and paid all my bills before I even noticed they went out.”

"Dad!!" I started.

"I'm not complaining." He looked between us. "But I am curious. About the timing. About... everything."

My heart hammered. He knew. Somehow, he knew it.

"I love your daughter, sir." Damien's voice was steady, convincing. "I know it happened fast. I know it looks suspicious. But when I saw her that night at the bar, like her world had just fallen apart… I knew I needed to intervene. Had to try."

He was a magnificent liar.

“And you just popped the question?” my father asked.

"I proposed a solution." Damien slid his chair closer to me as he put one of his hands on my shoulder. The touch looked natural, possessive. "She needed help. I was in a position to give it. It was a marriage that made sense for the two of us."

"Made sense," my father repeated. “That’s a cold way to speak of love.”

"James." There was a warm smile on the face of my father's nurse—Denise, said her name tag. "Time for your vitals. You can interrogate your son-in-law later."

“I’m not interrogating,” my father complained. "I'm getting to know him."

"You're scaring him. I can see it in his eyes."

“Fear is not something that touches me,” Damien said smoothly, and although I heard him, and he couldn’t be more right, his shoulders, to my eyes, tensed slightly.

Denise was taking my father's blood pressure when I motioned Damien over toward me. “You didn’t need to lie to him,” I whispered.

"Yes, I did. He's your father. He has a right to believe that you’re happy."

"But I'm not—"

"Aren't you?" His gray eyes pinned me. "Your father's alive. His bills are paid. You're living in luxury. You got everything you wanted."

"Everything except the truth."

"The truth is overrated." He leaned back as Denise concluded. "I'll let the two of you have some time alone. I have calls to make."

Before I had a chance to protest, he was gone, and I was left alone with my father’s knowing gaze.

"Isla," he said gently. "What did you do?"

"I saved you," I whispered. "That's what I did."

"By marrying a stranger?"

“By marrying someone who could afford to help, when nobody else would.” My voice cracked. "You were dying, Dad. The company was gone. Mom was..." I couldn't finish.

"Oh, sweetheart." He reached for my hand. "I never wanted you to sacrifice your life for me."

"It's not a sacrifice. It's—"

"It's a business arrangement. I can see it in how you both look at one another. Or don't look at each other." His thumb grazed my wedding ring. "How long?"

I couldn't lie to him. Not fully. "One year. Then we... re-evaluate."

"Re-evaluate," he sighed. "That's not a marriage, honey. That's a contract."

"I know what it is."

"Do you?" His grip tightened. "Do you know what it means to live a lie? To pretend every day? Your mother and I…we began with love, and we almost didn't make it. You're starting with nothing."

"We're starting with a deal. That's something."

"It's not enough." His eyes searched mine. "Promise me something. Please, please promise me you won’t get caught up in his world. Don’t be someone you’re not just so you can fit into his life."

"Dad."

"Promise me, Isla."

"I promise," I lied.

Because I was losing myself already. Felt it happening with each designer dress I slipped into, when I smiled at photographers, while I stood by Damien, and we pretended we were genuine.