Chapter 6- Reharsals Start Now

DOMINIC

She was smiling, but not for me.

It was the kind of smile people wore when cornered—tight, polite, and utterly unconvincing. And yet, there was something almost admirable about how she pulled it off, even with her entire life boxed into a suitcase and a diamond she clearly didn’t want weighing down her left hand.

Brooklyn Carson had officially stepped into my world.

I watched her leave the sitting room from the stair railings, her posture rigid as she followed the butler’s directions to the east wing. Her little brother had already sprinted off, delighted by the idea of two pools and a hallway longer than their entire apartment. He’d settle quickly. She wouldn’t.

I glanced down at my phone.

Orientation begins as soon as you settle down. My own words, now echoing in my head. Time to follow through.

I left the room and found her a few minutes later in the guest suite—hers now. The staff had unpacked her essentials and hung up what little she’d brought, which barely took up half a rack. The rest of the closet was empty. It wouldn’t be by tonight.

She turned when she saw me. “Is this the part where you grade my luggage?”

“No,” I said coolly, stepping inside. “This is the part where I remind you we’re on a deadline.”

Brooklyn crossed her arms. “You’re really great at welcome speeches, you know that?”

I ignored the sarcasm. “Dinner with my family is Tuesday. That gives us two days to get you briefed. You’ll be expected to know the story—how we met, how long we’ve been together, why we’re suddenly married.”

Her expression flickered. “You really think they’ll buy it?”

“They’ll have to. But I don’t rely on luck.” I reached into my pocket and handed her a slim folder. “That’s your fabricated relationship history. Read it. Memorize it. You’ll be quizzed.”

She opened it and skimmed the top page. “‘We met in an art gallery’? Seriously?”

“It sounds romantic enough to keep my mother from asking too many questions. And you’re an artist, aren’t you? It tracks.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue.

“There’s also a family stylist arriving this afternoon,” I continued. “You’ll be fitted for Tuesday. The color is blue—don’t ask why, just wear it. You’ll match me.”

Brooklyn narrowed her gaze. “What if I hate the dress?”

“Then you’ll smile in it anyway.”

Her lips parted, a retort loaded and ready, but she held it back. Smart. She was learning.

“And another thing,” I added. “Drop the ‘Mr. Blackwell.’ If we’re pretending to be married, you’ll call me Dominic. At least when we’re around others.”

“Fine,” she said, voice tight. “Then stop calling me ‘Miss Carson.’ It’s Brooklyn.”

“I know.”

We stood there for a moment—just breathing the same air, staring each other down like it was a silent game of chicken. She wasn’t afraid of me. That was new. Most people bent themselves in half to stay on my good side.

Brooklyn just stood taller.

“You don’t have to like me,” I said finally. “But you do need to keep up.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t worry. I’ve survived worse than you.”

Before I could respond, a light knock came at the door.

Mr. Alcott appeared in the hallway. “The stylist is ready, sir.”

I nodded. “Send her in.”

Alcott gave Brooklyn a short bow, then disappeared.

“You’ll have the rest of the day to settle in. The staff have prepped Elliot’s room and school uniform. He starts tomorrow.” I reminded her.

Her expression softened slightly at the mention of her brother.

“I’ll make sure he’s ready,” she said, quieter now.

I didn’t doubt that.

She was a thousand things, but careless wasn’t one of them.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I said, turning to go. “Once you’re done, meet me in the upstairs office. We’ll go over the rest of the prep.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at the ring on her finger, turning it like it was foreign metal.

“This is all going to blow up in our faces, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

I paused at the door. “Only if we let it.”

Then I left, before she could ask the next question.

The one I didn’t have an answer to.

I stared out the office window for exactly seven minutes.

Long enough to give her space, not long enough to look like I was waiting.

The stylist was efficient. I’d made it clear this wasn’t some charity makeover, nor a press stunt. Brooklyn didn’t need to be glammed up like a pageant queen—she needed to look the part. Elegant, sharp, appropriate for the daughter-in-law of a cutthroat family that smiled with teeth.

I’d already seen the dress. Royal blue, floor-length, square neckline. Classy. Safe. Beautiful in a way that didn’t try too hard.

The kind of thing that would make my mother blink twice—and make my father narrow his eyes.

Perfect.

A soft knock on the door. No hesitation, no delay.

“Come in,” I said.

Brooklyn stepped inside, her hair slightly tousled from the fitting, cheeks faintly flushed. The folder was in her hand now, tucked against her side like a textbook.

“Your stylist is terrifyingly good at her job,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Either that, or your tailor thinks I’m a mannequin.”

I almost smiled. Almost.

“She’s efficient. That’s why she’s still employed.”

Brooklyn walked toward the chair opposite my desk but didn’t sit. “So. What’s next? Another pop quiz on our fake meet-cute?”

I leaned back slightly. “That depends. Did you memorize it?”

She lifted a brow and recited dryly, “‘We met at an art gallery in Tribeca. You were looking at something abstract and expensive. I made a snide comment. You laughed. We got coffee.’”

I tilted my head. “And how long have we been together?”

“Six months. We kept things quiet because you ‘value privacy’ and I didn’t want media digging into Elliot’s life.”

“And what’s your mother’s maiden name?”

Her lips quirked. “Nice try.”

I actually smiled this time.

She finally dropped into the chair, her fingers tapping the folder absently. “Are your parents really going to believe any of this?”

“They’ll pretend to. That’s how this works.”

“And if they don’t?”

I met her eyes. “Then we give them a show convincing enough they won’t dare question it.”

She nodded once. “Got it. Perform or burn.”

“Exactly.”

We sat in silence for a few seconds—her watching me, me calculating the rest of the week. Tuesday would be the test. If we passed dinner with my parents, everything else would fall into place.

“What else do I need to know?” she asked. “Mannerisms? Taboo topics? Secret handshakes?”

I pulled a second folder from my desk and slid it to her.

“That’s your cheat sheet,” I said. “It covers my family—names, roles, power dynamics. Study it tonight. Memorize who to smile at and who to avoid.”

She opened it briefly, eyebrows lifting. “You made a dossier?”

“I always do.”

She didn’t ask what that meant.

Instead, she leaned back and looked at me like she was seeing past the suit. “Is this what you do? Control every variable? Plan every move?”

“Yes.”

“And that works for you?”

“Every time.”

Brooklyn shook her head faintly, more curious than judgmental. “You really are something else.”

I stood. Walked to the bar cart. “Do you drink?”

“Only when cornered.”

I poured two fingers of scotch into a glass and handed it to her anyway. “Then consider this a wall.”

She hesitated, then took it.

We clinked glasses. No toast.

She took a sip, grimaced, and coughed once. “God, that’s awful.”

“Expensive,” I corrected.

“Still awful.”

Another moment passed. I could feel the tension shift—less defiance, more assessment. She wasn’t just reacting anymore. She was thinking.

“You don’t scare me, you know,” she said, setting the glass down.

“I should.”

“Why? Because you’re rich? Or because you don’t blink unless it’s strategic?”

I stepped closer, just enough to notice her breath hitch.

“No,” I said quietly. “Because I never fake anything unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

We were close now. Not touching. Not smiling. Just standing in a quiet room full of consequences.

Her voice dropped. “Then let’s not pretend this is anything but a transaction.”

I studied her for another long second. “Fine by me.”

She turned to leave, folder under one arm, chin lifted like she’d won something.

And maybe she had.

But this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.