Chapter 16- The Calm before the Storm

MIA

Two days.

Two days of letting the cover story sink in. Two days of memorizing facts I don't believe. Two days of pretending this is normal.

And now it's here. The dinner. The meeting. The performance of a lifetime.

Apparently, Alexander and I have been dating for almost a year. We met at an auction. An auction. I've never even been to an auction. I wouldn't know what to do at an auction. Bid on something? Raise a paddle? Faint from the price tags?

This farce is more trouble than it needs to be.

I've been keeping all the information he gave me in my head. Actively meditating on it. Because I don't trust my memory. Not with this.

How we met: An auction. Some charity event. He noticed me across the room. Our eyes met. The rest is history.

How long we've been together: Six to nine months. We haven't settled on an exact number. He says it's better to be vague. I say it's better to be consistent.

What I do: This is where it gets complicated. Dean—his idiot best friend—offered a cover-up lie. On paper, I'm his financial consultant. Backdated to a year and a half ago. He forged documents. Created a work history. I don't know how. I don't want to know.

The nickname discussion was almost fatal. He suggested "darling." I almost died from embarrassment. We settled on the safe option. I call him Alex. He calls me Mia. Simple. Clean. No pet names.

Very complicated.

I stand in the walk-in closet. The line-up of gowns stretches before me. Gowns I've never dreamed of. Gowns I can't afford. Gowns that cost more than my entire life.

I pick through them. The first has a slit that reaches mid-thigh. The second has a plunging back that leaves nothing to the imagination. The third has a V-neck that could make the devil look away. I'm not exaggerating.

It's giving dark queen of the underworld vibes.

I settle on a cream gown. It's the most moderate option. Not quite moderate, but close. It has a cross back. A shawl to cover my exposed neck. It's elegant. Understated. Safe.

I put on the dress. I look at the makeup table.

I don't even know how to use half of it.

I pick up my new phone. Open YouTube. Search: "How to apply light makeup."

The first video starts. A woman in a robe talks about doing makeup before putting on the outfit.

Wait a minute.

I play another. The second woman is in a robe too. Talking about the colors she wants to apply based on what she's going to wear.

The third is in a robe.

OK. OK. OK. Wait.

Was I not supposed to put on the dress before the makeup?

I decide to be very careful. I try to follow what's happening on my phone. I pick up the wipes and wipe my face. Then primer. The lady picks up foundation and does the application. I follow carefully. I'm not a complete novice at this.

I beam.

The lady says it's time for eye makeup. The video zooms. I see what she's doing. I put the eyeshadow. Neutral color on the crease. Dark brown on the lids. Add some jelly sparkle.

I do the same for the other eye. I highlight. I contour. I blend with powder.

I look at myself in the mirror. Not bad.

I do my lips. Pick up the eyeliner and mascara. I carefully line my eyes. Do the mascara.

Just then, a notification pops up on my phone. From Alexander.

"Waiting in the car."

My hand jerks. I knock the phone over. I try to save it. The mascara brush slips. A black line streaks across the dress.

The black is a contrast on the cream color.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I look at the screen. He's waiting.

I get up. Go back to the walk-in closet. Now I'm very annoyed at two things.

One: I have to change.

Two: Into one of these devilish gowns.

I pick one with a black high tight slit. Because V-necks and plunging backs are out of the option. I grab a pair of burgundy heels. Christian Louboutin. I don't know the name. I don't care.

I just need to get through tonight.

— — —

ALEXANDER

I'm seated in the car.

My fingers drum against the steering wheel. The rhythm is sharp. Impatient. Women have a knack for wasting time.

I check my watch. 7:36. My mother said 7:00. I'm definitely getting an earful.

The elevator doors open.

She walks out.

I stop drumming.

She's wearing a black gown. The fabric clings to her body like it was made for her. A high slit runs up her thigh. Dangerous. The neckline is modest—no plunging V, no exposed back. But the way the dress moves. The way she moves. It's enough.

Her hair is down. Curled at the ends. Her makeup is soft. Understated. But her lips are painted a deep burgundy. The same shade as her heels. Christian Louboutin. I recognize the red soles.

She's covering the slit with her clutch. She's uncomfortable. I can see it in the way she walks. Aggressive. Like someone made her pissed.

She reaches the car. The door is already open. She slides in. Doesn't look at me.

"Your tastes are questionable."

I blink. Start the engine. Pull out of the garage.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb." She stares straight ahead. "I'm talking about the dresses in my closet."

"What happened to the dress?"

She turns to me. Her eyes are fire. "You have a whore's taste."

"Excuse me?"

"The V-necks. The plunging backs. The hipbone slits. What kind of woman wears that to meet her boyfriend's parents?"

Oh.

I rub a hand over my face. Realization dawns.

I pull out my phone at the next red light. Check Diana's text. She's the one who did the shopping. Dean's twin sister. The one who apparently thought it would be funny to fill Mia's closet with nothing but provocative gowns.

I open the message.

"My bro gave me the gist of your situation. So yeah, thank me later for what I picked."

This witch. She and Dean are the same person. Mad and crazy. Both of them.

"I didn't pick them," I say. I take a turn. The estate is close.

"And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"I don't have time to go shopping. Just go with what was picked for you."

She looks out the window. A childish protest. Her arms cross. Her jaw tightens.

We reach the estate gate. The guard opens it.

"Master Alexander."

I nod. Drive through.

She sits up. Looks at the mansion looming ahead. It's massive. Stone and ivy. Lit up like a cathedral. She's never seen anything like it. I can tell.

"I hope you remember our cover story."

"Yeah," she says. "I do. Auction. Financial consultant. Six to nine months."

I open my door without letting her finish. Walk around. Open hers. Offer her my hand.

She takes it. Her palm is sweaty. She's nervous.

"Stop acting like I'm about to crucify you."

I rub her knuckle. Trying to ease her tension. It doesn't work. She grips me tighter.

We walk toward the dining room. She looks around. Taking in the interior. The marble. The chandelier. The paintings that cost more than her entire life.

"This way," I say. Gesture left.

We reach the dining room.

My eyes sweep the scene.

My mother. My father. And two unwelcome guests.

Natasha. And Monica.

What the fuck are they doing here?

My father's voice cuts through the silence. "Good to see you finally decided to join us."

But his eyes aren't on me. Everyone's eyes are on Mia.

She tenses. Her grip on my arm tightens.

The game has begun.