It Was All Fake

The plane hit turbulence. Or maybe that was because every inch of me had responded to what his words had implied.

"I'd rather die," I said.

"Noted." But his eyes told me he didn’t believe it. "Moving on. Pages twenty-one through thirty cover business matters. You are not entitled to my business and I have no interest in yours if you start one. Clean financial separation."

"That divorce occupies pages thirty-one through forty, '' Lucas says gently. “How it will be dealt with, public relations management, division of assets accumulated during marriage, which is essentially none since everything is separate.”

"And pages forty-one through forty-seven?" I asked.

Damien's expression turned to stone. "Non-disclosure agreement. What goes on in this marriage, stays in this marriage. You don't write a tell-all. You don’t sell stories to the tabloids. You never breathe a word to anyone about what our current relationship is, and I mean never, for the rest of your life, or you lose everything and I will sue you for breach of contract."

“You trust folk, you really do.”

"I trust contracts." He pulled out a pen. "Sign page forty-seven. Initial every section. Then we're done."

I should read every word. I should probably get my own lawyer to look through this. We should do a lot of things that smart people would do.

But I hadn't been smart from the moment I'd gotten into his car last night.

I signed. Initialed. Signed again. By the time I was done, my hand was aching, and we were halfway to New York.

"Winner!" Damien said, grabbing the contract once more. "You are now also contractually obligated.”

"Lucky me."

"Yes." Our eyes met, and for a moment there was something raw underneath the ice. "Lucky both of us."

The remainder of the flight was in a strained silence. Lucas worked on his laptop. There were rapid-fire business transactions happening, and Damien was placing phone calls in the same language that I could not understand. I looked out the window and thought about what the hell, really, I had done.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Sophie: CALL ME RIGHT NOW OR I’M COMING TO VEGAS TO MURDER YOU MYSELF.

I typed back: On my way home. Long story. Will explain everything.

Her response came back immediately: YOU KNOW YOU DO? And we hear that you also married a billionaire at TMZ??? ISLA???

Shit. It was already out there.

"They found out," I said.

Damien glanced up from his phone. "Good. That's a public service announcement. Lucas, reschedule the inquisition for this afternoon. We’ll do so at the penthouse."

"Wait, this afternoon? I just—I need time to—"

"Time's up." He rose as the plane descended. “Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Cross. Hope you're ready for it."

I wasn't.

I really, really wasn't.

***

MANHATTAN - TWO HOURS LATER

The penthouse was on the 50th floor of a Midtown building, all glass and steel and cool, contemporary angles. Private elevator doors opened into the living room, an expansive area with floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture and not a single personal touch.

It was straight out of a magazine spread. Perfect and soulless.

“Your room is just down this hall. Damien pointed to the left. "My room is down that one. Kitchen, gym, office are all over there. Do not disturb anything in my studies. Lucas will stop by later with your new cellphone and credit cards, as well as a schedule.”

"Schedule?"

“The press conference at three. My cutter comes at one o'clock and gets you looking the same. Questions?"

About a thousand. But before I could pose any of them to him, he got a phone call.

“I have to get this,” he said, already walking away. "Make yourself at home. Or don't. I don't care either way."

He disappeared out of the west hall, and I was alone in my new jail.

No. Not prison. Penthouse. Gilded cage. Same difference.

I walked down the east hall and pushed open the door to what was apparently my room. It was huge, there are king bed, sitting area, massive walk-in closet, bathroom with a tub I could drown in. It had windows facing Central Park, and for a moment the view took my breath away.

Then I saw the boxes.

All my belongings from my apartment, neatly packed and lined up on one wall. Twelve cardboard boxes in the house of a stranger have been my whole entire life.

I sat on the edge of the bed and finally allowed myself to feel it. All of it. The fear, anger, sheer overwhelming terror of what I’d done.

I’d married a stranger, a man who I didn’t know.

I'd sold a year of my life.

I had saved my father, but doomed myself to any semblance of a normal future.

My phone rang. My mother.

I responded before giving myself a chance to hold back.

"Where have you been?" Her voice was shrill, panicked. “Marcus said you went missing and your father’s debts were paid, and now there are rumors that you married some—some—”

"Billionaire," I finished. "His name is Damien Cross. And yes, we're married."

Silence. Then: "This is a joke."

"It's not."

“Isla Monroe, you let me know what’s happening right this second or so help me...”

"It's Isla Cross now, actually." The words tasted strange. “And I did what you wanted, Mom. I saved the family. Just not in the way you thought.”

"By marrying a stranger?!"

“By marrying someone who actually wants to help us and not someone who fucked my cousin."

I disconnected before she could have a chance to reply. My hands were shaking.

A knock on my door. "Mrs. Cross? I'm Simone, your stylist. May I come in?"

It was one o'clock already. Time to be somebody I wasn’t.

"Come in," I called.

The woman who had walked in was beautiful, tall and angular, with perfect features and an air of cold efficiency like Damien. She cast an eye over me and smiled kindly.

"Rough morning?"

"Rough life."

"Well," she set down her bags. “Let’s get you looking like you’re winning anyway. We just fake it till everyone is convinced.”

"What if I don't believe it?"

Her smile turned sad. "Then you pretend it’s that too, baby. You fake that too."

***

THREE HOURS LATER

I didn’t look like myself in the mirror.

Simone has turned me into someone who fit in with Damien's world, the designer dress that likely cost more than my car, hair coiffed in artful waves, makeup to make me look radiant instead of exhausted. I looked expensive. Confident. Like a woman who married for love, not desperation.

"Perfect," Simone said. "You look like you belong with him."

I didn’t belong anywhere.

In the lobby of the building, a group consisting of some in the press had gathered, a carefully vetted few that Lucas assured. Damien was already down there, waiting. I could hear him through the closed door, his voice smooth and commanding as he fielded some pre-interview question.

"You ready?" Lucas appeared at my side. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”

"Yes, I do."

"No, you really don't. Damien can handle..."

"I'm ready." I squared my shoulders. "Let's go lie to the world."

And Lucas’s expression was all complicated, pity and respect, something else I didn’t know the word for. "For what it's worth? And I believe you’re a hell of a lot braver than you think.”

"Or stupider."

"Sometimes they're the same thing."

It was like going to hell, that elevator ride down. My heart thudded against my ribs. My palms were sweating. The ring on my finger felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds.

The doors opened.

Cameras flashed immediately, blinding. Voices shouted questions. “When Lucas pushed me forward, and then...”

Damien.

He smiled when he looked up at me and something bright flashed across his face too quickly to decipher. Then his face smoothened as though polished by the ideal corporate charm. He'd crossed in to me in three big steps, and before I could even consider sending him word of his rudeness from my father's picket line… or something equally ridiculous… his hand was at my waist tugging me into this chest.

“There’s her,” he said, so that the cameras could hear. "My beautiful wife."

He kissed me.

Not Vegas, cold and perfunctory. It was intentional, possessive, a manufactured argument for anyone watching to believe that we were real. He worked his mouth over mine so skillfully, one hand firm on my lower back, the other cradling my face as though I was something to protect.

It was all fake.

So why did my body act like it was real?

When he leaned back, he glanced into my eyes for the briefest of moments and there was a warning in them: Go along.

"Shall we?" He put his arm around me and turned to the press, effectively positioning his body between me and the cameras. “I know you all have questions.

“Mr. Cross, how was it that you met Miss Monroe?”

"Mrs. Cross," Damien corrected smoothly. “And we’d only met six months before, at a charity gala. It was... instant."

I’m into Marcus. I was with Marcus six months ago. But no one here knew that.

"Why Vegas? Why the secrecy?"

“When you know, you know." His arm tightened around me. "We didn't want to wait. Life's too short."

“There are some whispers that this is a business deal. ”

"There are always rumors." Damien's voice turned cold. “But let me tell you, my marriage is real. My wife is real. And anybody that says different is a lying Rangers-hating poof, and they will be getting my lawyers’ letters.”

The threat was clear. The reporters backed off.

“Tell me, Mrs. Cross how does it feel to be getting married so suddenly?”

All eyes turned to me. I sensed Damien stiffen, waiting to see whether I flinched.

I smiled. "Lucky," I said. "I feel incredibly lucky."

It was the first honest statement I’d made over the last twenty-four hours. Because, in spite of all the lies, the contract and the impossibility of this, I was lucky. My father was alive. My family was saved.

And for my freedom, it cost me almost nothing.

Small price, really.

The presser tacked on another half hour. Damien managed like a pro, his charm, weapon-quality and deceptions slicker than silk. I stood by him, played the smitten bride and died a little inside every time a camera flashed.

Finally, Lucas called time. We retreated to the lift and Damien’s arm fell away from my waist the second the doors snapped shut as if I’d scalded him.

"Well done," he said. "You're a natural liar."

"Takes one to know one."

We made the ascent in surly silence. We took the elevator to our penthouse and I went straight to my room.

"Isla."

I halted, but I did not look around.

“Now, tomorrow, we will start the hard work,” he said. "Events, dinners, playing house. You signed up for this. Don't forget that."

"Trust me," I said quietly. “I can’t forget even if I tried.”

I shut the door between us and at last, at last, let myself shatter.

I'd done it. I’d given up my soul to save my family.

Now I only had to contend with the devil I’d brokered that deal with.