CHAPTER 6: CLAUSE NINE

I held up the page with a hand that would not stay still.

"Clause nine," I said. My voice sounded thin, even to me. "Read it."

Damien did not take the paper. He did not need to. He looked at me, calm as always, and said it from memory.

"In the presence of others, Party B will act as a loving wife to Party A. This includes holding hands, standing close, and showing affection when needed."

When needed.

I stared at the words. I had read them three times, and they still did not feel real. It was not a scary clause. Nobody was going to hurt me. But my stomach turned over anyway, because I understood something I did not want to understand.

He wanted me to pretend.

"You said it was on paper only," I whispered.

"In private, it is. In public, no one must doubt us."

"And tonight?"

"Tonight is the first test." He turned his eyes back to the window. "It is for tonight."

That was all. He said it like he was telling me the weather.

Something rose up in my chest, hot and sudden. "Do you hear yourself? An hour ago you told me I'm your wife on paper. You said it in this very car. And now I'm supposed to hold your hand and look at you like you hung the moon?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"You will manage."

"No, you don't understand." I pressed the page against my knee so it would stop shaking. "I know what it feels like to give love to someone who doesn't want it. I did it for three years. I smiled and waited and told myself it was enough. And now you ask me to do it again, only this time I'll know it's fake before I even start."

My voice cracked on the last word. I turned my face away, because I did not want him to see my eyes.

The car was quiet. Grant kept driving. I could hear the soft sound of the tires on the road.

"I will not ask you to feel anything," Damien said at last. His voice was lower now. Not kind, exactly. But not as cold. "Only to look like it. What you feel is yours. No one will take it."

I did not know what to say to that. So I said nothing. I just held the folder against my chest and watched the city go by, and tried to breathe.

His house was waiting for us, glass and gray stone, shining in the afternoon light. A woman in a neat dark dress opened the door. She was older, with a kind, tired face, and she looked at me like she was not sure whether to bow or hug me.

"This is Mrs. Bell," Damien said. "She runs the house. She will help you get ready."

Then he was gone, up the stairs, before I could say a word.

Mrs. Bell led me to a bedroom on the second floor. It was the same room I woke up in that morning, but it looked different now. On the bed lay a long dress in deep green silk, with a soft neckline and sleeves that ended at the wrist. A pair of small gold earrings sat beside it on a velvet tray.

"Mr. Ashford chose it himself," Mrs. Bell said gently.

"He did?"

"This morning. Before you woke."

I touched the fabric. It was the softest thing I had ever felt. I had never owned anything like it. Even the pale blue dress I saved three months for looked like a rag next to this.

Why would a man who said "on paper" take the time to choose a dress?

I decided not to think about it. I had enough to be afraid of.

When Mrs. Bell left, I stood in front of the mirror and tried to smile.

It looked terrible. Stiff and scared, like a child told to say cheese. I tried again. Worse. I tried to think of something happy, and my mind went to the one place I did not want it to go. Yesterday afternoon. I stood in front of a different mirror, in a different dress, practicing a different smile. I was so full of hope. I thought my life was about to begin.

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

*Don't cry. You already ruined one face today.*

I took a breath. Then another. I washed my face, fixed my hair, and put on the green dress, and the earrings, and the diamond ring that did not belong to me. Then I looked at the woman in the mirror.

She was pale. Her eyes were still red. But she stood straight.

She looked, I thought, like someone who might actually survive tonight.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

Damien stood in the doorway in a fresh black suit. His eyes moved over me, once, quickly. From my hair to my shoes and back. His face did not change at all.

I waited. I did not know for what. A compliment, maybe. A word.

Nothing came.

But he did not leave, either. He stood there a second too long, one hand on the door frame, his gaze stuck somewhere near my shoulder, like a man who had forgotten what he came to say.

"Ready?" he asked finally.

"No."

"Good. Nervous looks real."

I almost laughed. It surprised me.

The sun was going down as we got in the car. The sky was orange and purple, the kind of evening that looks too pretty for something bad to happen. Grant closed the door behind us, and again we were alone in the quiet back seat.

"Give me your hand," Damien said.

"What?"

"We should practice."

I felt my face go hot. "Here? Now?"

"Better here than in front of Celia."

That was fair. I held out my hand, awkwardly, and he took it.

His fingers were long and cool. They closed around mine, stiff and careful, like he was holding something that might break. Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

"You're holding it like a business card," I said.

"I do not know how to hold it."

"You've never held a woman's hand?"

"Not like this."

I looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His whole arm was stiff as a board. And suddenly I understood.

He was nervous.

The man whom the whole city feared, the man who made Ryan kneel on a marble floor, was more afraid of holding my hand than I was.

"Relax your shoulder," I said, softer than I meant to.

"I am relaxed."

"You're not. You look like a statue." I moved my fingers, just a little, and slid them between his, the way people do when they are used to each other. "Like this."

His breath stopped. I felt it.

"Better," he said, very low.

For a few moments we just sat there like that, hand in hand, looking at nothing. It was the strangest thing. It was only a practice. It meant nothing. And yet my heart was beating so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

"What do I do when Celia starts?" I asked, to break the silence.

"Do not apologize."

"What?"

"No matter what they say. Do not say you are sorry. Not once."

I frowned. "I say sorry all the time."

"I know," said Damien. "Not tonight."

I wanted to ask how he knew. But before I could, the car slowed down.

Tall iron gates opened in front of us. A long road, lined with trees and glowing lamps, led to a huge white house with every window lit up. It looked like a palace. It looked like a place where people were judged.

My hand tightened on his without my meaning to. He did not pull away.

The car rolled up the drive and stopped near the front steps. Rows of black cars were parked on the gravel, all shining, all expensive. Drivers stood beside them, waiting.

And then I saw it.

Far at the end of the row, squeezed between two long limousines, was a small silver sedan. The paint was dull. One taillight was cracked, with a strip of red tape over the crack.

I knew that car. I had learned to drive in that car.

My blood went cold.

"Damien," I whispered. "That's my father's car."

He followed my eyes. For the first time all day, I saw surprise cross his face.

"I did not invite them," he said.

Then who did?