CHAPTER 3: THE FIRST PERFORMANCE

Rosa arrived at exactly two o’clock.

She was polite but distant, the way people are when they already know you won’t be staying long. We took a different black car, this time sleeker, with a partition between us and the driver. As the city slid past the windows, I caught my reflection in the glass. The same tired face. The same cheap sweater. Only the background had changed.

The first store Rosa took me to didn’t have price tags.

A woman in a cream suit greeted us like we had expected. Within minutes I was standing in a private fitting room larger than my old bedroom while silent attendants brought dress after dress. Deep greens. Soft blacks. A blood-red gown that made me look like someone else entirely.

“Mr. Voss prefers classic tones,” Rosa said quietly when she saw me hesitate over a bright blue dress. “Nothing too loud.”

I put the blue one back.

By the time we left, the back of the car was filled with garment bags and boxes. Shoes that cost more than three months of my old rent. A black clutch so soft it felt like touching night itself. I kept waiting for someone to tell me there had been a mistake.

No one did.

When we returned to the penthouse, the sky was already turning the color of bruised plums. Rosa helped me carry everything to my room, then paused at the door.

“Mr. Voss will be home for dinner tonight. He requested that you join him. Formal attire.”

My stomach tightened. “Formal?”

She nodded once and left.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror wearing a simple black dress that still felt too elegant for me. The neckline was modest, the fabric expensive. I barely recognized the woman staring back.

At precisely eight, I walked into the dining room.

Damien was already seated at the long glass table. He had changed into a black shirt with the sleeves rolled once at the wrists. No tie. The top button is undone. Somehow he looked even more dangerous like this.

He glanced up when I entered. His eyes moved over me slowly, assessing, but his expression stayed unreadable.

“Sit.”

I took the chair across from him. The table was so long it felt like we were shouting across a river. Two place settings. Candlelight that somehow made the silence colder.

A server appeared, poured wine neither of us touched, and disappeared again.

Damien cut into his steak with precise movements. “Was the shopping successful?”

“Yes.”

“You will need more. There is a charity gala on Friday. You will attend as my wife.”

I set my fork down. “Already?”

“The contract began the moment you signed.” His voice was calm, almost bored. “People will expect to see us together. The sooner the public believes the marriage is real, the better.”

I stared at the perfect slice of meat on my plate. My appetite had vanished.

“What do I have to do at this gala?”

“Smile. Hold my arm. Answer questions with the answers I give you. Do not wander off. Do not speak to the press without me present.” He took a sip of water. “Most importantly, do not look at me the way you are looking at me right now.”

I blinked. “How am I looking at you?”

“Like you are trying to find a person underneath.” His gaze lifted and locked onto mine. “There isn’t one. Stop searching.”

The words should not have hurt. I had known what I was signing up for. Still, something sharp slid between my ribs.

I forced a small, empty smile. “Understood.”

We finished the meal in silence. When the plates were cleared, Damien stood.

“I have work. You are free to use any room except the ones I mentioned. Do not wait up.”

He walked past me. The faint scent of his cologne, something dark and expensive lingered for a second before disappearing with him.

I sat alone at the long table until the candles burned lower.

Later, in my room, I stood at the window with the city glittering beneath me like scattered diamonds. Somewhere down there, people were living ordinary lives. Fighting over bills. Laughing at bad television. Sleeping next to someone who actually wanted them there.

I pressed my palm against the cold glass.

Twelve months.

Three hundred and sixty-five days of performing.

I turned away from the view and noticed a small black box on the nightstand that had not been there earlier. Inside lay a simple platinum band and a second ring set with a diamond so large it looked almost vulgar.

A note in sharp handwriting rested beneath them.

“Wear these starting tomorrow.

D.V.”

I slid the platinum band onto my finger. It fit perfectly, as if someone had measured my hand while I wasn’t looking.

The diamond ring felt heavier.

I left both rings on the nightstand and climbed into the massive bed. The sheets were soft enough to drown in. Sleep still refused to come.

Somewhere down the hall, a door closed. Soft footsteps moved past my room and faded.

Damien Voss was home, yet the penthouse felt emptier than my old apartment ever had.

I closed my eyes and whispered the only promise I could keep.

I would survive this.

Even if the cold killed every soft part of me first.