The First Morning

I didn't sleep.

How could I, when my whole life had been torn apart and reassembled in forty-eight hours? I sprawled across that immense bed, in that disinfected-beautiful room, and stared up at the ceiling until most of the black were gray were pinks as ribbons to gold over Manhattan.

Mrs. Cross.

It was a name that wore like a costume. As if I were playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

My phone, thankfully, had finally died around 3 a.m. Before then, it was just a constant stream of notifications. All of it only congratulations from people who barely knew me, old friends I hadn’t talked to in years suddenly reaching out to ask how I’d been doing for so long and 17 more missed calls from my mom.

The last message I’d read was one from Sophie: I’m here when you want to talk. No judgment. Just bring wine. Like, a lot of wine.

I gave up trying to sleep and stumbled into the bathroom at 6:47am. The tub was obscene, you could easily fit three people in there, and it had jets and a view of Central Park. I ran the water as hot as I could tolerate and melted into it, feeling scalding heat punish my spent body.

This is my life now. Luxury I'd never dreamed of. A husband I barely knew. A contract that possessed the next year of my life.

I should feel grateful. My father was fine, his bills paid, his company saved. What I had come to do, I had done.

So why did I feel like I was underwater?

By the time I made myself get out, the water was icy. I wrapped myself in a towel that I suspected cost more than rent used to be and faced my closet.

My Brooklyn clothes looked pitiful hanging next to the designer garments Simone had already filled her racks with tags around them, expecting me to turn into whoever Damien Cross's wife was supposed to be. I pulled on jeans and a sweater from my old life like armor and got dressed.

I could smell coffee.

My stomach clenched. He was awake.

I managed to dodge being alone with him since yesterday's press conference. He had vanished into his study when we’d come up here, and I had hidden in my room like a coward. But I couldn't hide forever.

He was in the kitchen and I caught my breath.

He was at the espresso machine wearing fitted black pants and a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up, his hair still wet from his shower. A little morning light shone through his profile, with a strong jaw, piercing concentration at whatever he was doing. He was an advertisement for expensive watches or cologne. Untouchable and devastating.

He looked up when I arrived and those storm-gray eyes raked over me — the old jeans, a scruffy sweater, my hair heaped into a wet bun.

“You look like a college student,” he said.

"Good morning to you too," I mumbled as I made my way to the coffee pot.

"I have already made coffee." He pushed a cup across the marble island toward me. "Black, no sugar. How you took it on the plane."

I looked at the cup, taken aback by the gesture. "You remembered."

"I remember everything." He took a hit off his own coffee, peering at me over the rim. "It’s an important skill in business. And apparently in fake marriages."

"It's not fake." The words were more brusque than he had intended. "It's legal. There's a difference."

"Is there?" His smile was cold. “Feels like some of this is not very real from where I’m standing.”

I took a scalding sip of my tea, just to have an action to perform. He was right, it looked exactly as I’d taken it yesterday, even though I despised black coffee. I’d been too proud to ask for sugar in his presence.

"What's your plan for today?" he said, leaning against the counter as if this were a typical domestic discussion.

"I don't have a plan. I don't have a job anymore." And I bit off the acrid taste on my tongue before it had a chance to go free.

"You have a credit card with unlimited spending and a city that offers unlimited spending opportunities." He reached for his phone, typed something. "Sending you Lucas’s contact information. He’ll set up a car service every time you guys have to be somewhere."

"I can take the subway."

His laugh was sharp. "No, you can't."

"Excuse me?"

"You're Isla Cross now. You can’t just vanish on the subway. There are photographers everywhere, people wanting pictures, gossip, dirt." He set his phone down. “You want to get mobbed on the 6 train? Be my guest. But when it’s on TMZ with some headline about my wife slumming it in Brooklyn, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The truth of it struck me like ice water. I couldn't just... exist anymore. Now everything was performance.

"I hate this," I whispered.

There was a flicker of something in his face, almost a kind look, but it passed too quickly to be sure. "You'll get used to it."

"Will I?" I met his eyes. "Will I ever get used to the idea of being watched constantly? Having my every move calculated? Living in a beautiful prison?"

“Half of America would kill for this jail.”

"I'm not most people."

"No." His gaze intensified. "You're not."

The air between us became taut, charged with something I didn’t want to acknowledge. I looked away at first.

“I’m going to see my dad,” I replied. "At the hospital."

"I'll come with you."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do." He pushed off the counter. "We're married, Isla. Married people visit hospitals together. It's what we do."

“When did you get so concerned about what married people do?”

“Because I did pay 10 million dollars to be one." He snatched his suit jacket from where it was draped over a chair. "Car's downstairs in twenty minutes. Just get dressed with something besides your Brooklyn uniform. The photographers will be waiting."

He brushed past me, and I sniffed that cedar scent which by now was distinctively recognisable. My body responded before my mind could clamp down on the words, like a kind of hyper-awareness prickling across my skin, heart rate accelerating.

I hated that. Hated that he made me feel with one look.

"Damien."

He stood in the doorway and didn’t turn around.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Really. You could've married anyone. Someone from your world who gets it all. Why me?"

It was a long second before he spoke. Then, “Because you did need me as much as I needed you. That makes us even."

"Does it?"

He glanced back at last, and there was something in his face that made my chest do a painful loop. "Get dressed, Isla. We leave in twenty."

And he was gone before I could answer.