Chapter 4

The next morning, Cora awoke to silence, not the comforting kind that filled her tiny old apartment on Sunday mornings, when her brother still slept down the hall and birds chirped outside the fire escape, but the cold, suffocating kind. The kind of silence that came with expectation.

She got out of bed, searching the closet for anything remotely comfortable. Everything in it screamed wealth, heels, couture gowns, designer labels.

A knock at the door startled her. Miya stepped in, holding a tablet. “Good morning, Mrs. Pritchard. Your schedule today includes a private breakfast with Mr. Pritchard, wardrobe fitting at eleven, photography session for Vanity Fair at noon, and etiquette training at three.”

Cora blinked. “Etiquette training?”

“The role of a billionaire’s wife comes with responsibilities. You’ll need to learn them.”

She wanted to scream, instead, she nodded, pulled on a simple silk blouse, and followed Miya down the massive hallway.

The dining room was a grand space — all black marble, gold trim, and floor-length windows. Harvey sat at the head of the long table, reading a newspaper like it was the 1920s. He didn’t look up as she entered.

“Sit,” he said.

Cora crossed her arms. “I’m not your pet.”

“No, but you are mine,” he said calmly.

Her jaw tightened. She sat across from him, two plates had been set — omelets, fruit, croissants, and tea. She hadn’t even realized how hungry she was until she caught the smell.

“You handled yourself well last night,” he said, folding the paper.

“Because I didn’t throw a drink in your face?”

His mouth twitched. “You played the role. You smiled. You impressed exactly who I needed you to.”

“That was your goal, wasn’t it? Impressing some business mogul?”

Cora sipped his tea. “Rossè Holdings. They control a third of my merger access. They wanted to see I was ‘stable.’ You did well.”

She stabbed a piece of fruit with her fork. “You’re welcome.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Harvey spoke again.

“I’ve arranged for you to begin etiquette training. It’s non-negotiable. You’ll learn posture, speech, poise. We can’t afford any cracks in the illusion.”

“I’m not a broken vase,” she said sharply.

“No,” he said. “You’re a polished blade. But even blades dull without care.”

By noon, Cora found herself in front of a camera again. The Vanity Fair shoot was every bit as invasive as she feared — flashbulbs, stylists, fake laughter, and forced poses. She wore a pale gold gown, her hair pinned into a regal chignon, her expression carefully curated.

Harvey joined her midway through the session, placing a casual hand on her waist.

“You’re photogenic,” he whispered as cameras clicked.

“I feel like a mannequin,” she muttered back.

He smiled for the cameras. “Then be the most beautiful mannequin in the room.”

After the shoot, they did a short interview. Harvey answered most questions — about business, marriage, power couples. Cora sat beside him, smiling, nodding, adding an occasional affectionate glance.

When the interviewer asked, “How did you two meet?” Harvey replied, “It was fate. She walked into my life when I least expected it. And she stayed.”

Cora wanted to scream at the lie, but she played her part. She squeezed his hand.

“She changed everything,” Harvey added.

Later that afternoon, etiquette training began. The instructor, Madame Cecile, was a stern Frenchwoman with ice-blonde hair and heels that could kill a man.

“You will walk like you own every room,” she said, circling Cora like a hawk. “Speak as if the world listens. You will cross your legs at the ankles, not the knees. And you will never — jamais — slouch.”

Cora raised her chin. “What if I already own my body and voice?”

Cecile arched an eyebrow. “Then we sharpen the tools you already have.”

They practiced walking, speaking, laughing without showing too much teeth. It was exhausting and degrading for Cora but oddly empowering .

By evening, Cora collapsed onto her bed. Her feet ached, her brain buzzed, and her entire body felt like it was being remolded against her will.

That night, Harvey knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she said without emotion.

He stepped inside, leaning against the frame. “You look different.”

“I feel different.”

“Good. I want a woman who adapts. Not one who breaks.”

She met his gaze. “What happens when I adapt too well?”

He tilted his head. “Then you become dangerous.”

“Maybe I already am.”

Harvey smiled faintly. “Then this will be more interesting than I thought.”

He left, the door clicking softly behind him. Cora lay back in the bed, staring at the ceiling. The cage was velvet-lined but it was still a cage and she was already planning how to escape it.

Cora awoke before sunrise. The city skyline, visible through the towering bedroom windows, was still cloaked in the bluish hush of early dawn.

For a moment, she simply sat at the edge of her bed, feeling the plush carpet under her toes and listening for any sound in the penthouse but there was none. Silence had become its own kind of alarm.

Today would be different. She decided that before even stepping into the shower, there was only so much she could do while reacting to Harvey Pritchard's moves. She needed to make some of her own.

In the kitchen, Miya was waiting, as always, clipboard in hand and lips pressed into a neutral line. The housekeeper passed Cora a cup of black coffee.

“Schedule?” Cora asked flatly.

“Interview with Lux Magazine at 10. Then lunch with Ms. White — she’s the wife of Harvey's biggest investor. You’ll attend a ballet tonight. Black-tie. Press will be there.”

“Of course.”

“And you’re expected to memorize the investor profile packet Mr. Pritchard left in your study.”

Cora raised an eyebrow. “Study?”

Miya nodded. “Third floor. Right off the gallery.”

She almost laughed. As if she were the kind of woman who had a gallery or a study. She was still trying to figure out which button on the toilet turned off the heated seat.

She found the study by accident. It looked more like a war room than a personal office: walls of books, brass accents, sleek mahogany desk, and a digital screen embedded into the tabletop.

The packet sat in a leather folder: names, photos, financial histories, marital ties. Everyone Harvey needed her to charm or manipulate, their lives laid out in elegant bullet points.

It made her skin crawl but she studied every face, every note. She scribbled questions in the margins. She practiced names aloud. When Harvey demanded a role, she would give him a performance he wouldn’t forget.