CHAPTER 9: A BORING GIRL IN A BORROWED DRESS

"Do you really think he loves you?"

Her breath was warm on my ear. It smelled of mint and expensive perfume.

"He's only using you, Lila. To hurt Ryan. That's all this is. A man like Damien Ashford does not fall for a girl like you. He just wants his nephew to feel small."

I did not move. I could not.

"And when he's finished with you, he will throw you away." She smiled. I could hear it in her voice. "You'll be nothing again. A boring girl in a borrowed dress. And I'll still be here, with Ryan's baby, and the Ashford name."

She stepped back and looked at herself in the mirror. She touched her lip with one finger, like she was checking a painting.

"Wash your face," she said. "You look like you've been crying. It's very unattractive."

Then she walked out, and the door closed with a soft click.

I stood alone in that huge, shining bathroom. The tap was still running. I did not turn it off.

*A boring girl.*

Ryan's word. Out of her mouth. They had probably laughed about it together, in bed, on some quiet night while I was home waiting for his call.

I put my hands on the sink because my legs did not feel like mine. I wanted to be angry. Anger would have been easier. But what I felt was something worse, something cold and slow that crept up from my stomach.

Because the awful thing was, her words fit.

*Wife on paper.* He said it himself. *Clause nine. When needed.* He never said he cared. He never once said he wanted me. He just appeared at the exact moment Ryan was kneeling on the floor, and he made Ryan look small in front of the whole family. Then he asked me to marry him. In a quiet room. Where no one could see.

What if that was the plan all along?

I looked at the ring on my finger. It sparkled under the lights, big and perfect and cold.

Then I remembered his thumb, moving once over my knuckles under the table.

Was that part of the show too?

I shut my eyes. I did not know. And not knowing felt like standing at the edge of a cliff in the dark.

I washed my face with cold water. I pressed a tissue under my eyes. I looked at the girl in the mirror, with her red nose and her swollen lids, and I told her very quietly: *You will not give her this. Not tonight.*

Then I tried to smile. It still looked terrible. But it was a smile.

When I came back to the dining hall, the table had gone loud again. Plates were being cleared. Celia leaned close to Sabrina, whispering something that made them both laugh. Ryan sat with his glass in his hand, staring at nothing. My mother was telling a cousin how she always knew I would "settle down well." She did not look up when I sat.

Damien did.

He had turned the moment I came through the door. His eyes went to my face, and I knew he saw it all, my red eyes, my pale mouth, the trembling in my fingers as I picked up my napkin.

He did not say a word. He did not ask where I had been, or what happened, or who was in the bathroom.

He just put his hand over mine on the tablecloth, where everyone could see.

And then he stood up.

"We are leaving," he said.

Every head turned.

"Leaving?" Celia said, putting down her glass. "But the dessert has not even been served!"

"My wife is tired."

*My wife.* He said it so easily. Like it was true.

"Damien, don't be rude. The family has not finished..."

"Goodnight, Celia."

That was all. He took my hand and pulled out my chair, and I stood up, and I walked beside him, and nobody dared to stop us.

At the door, my mother caught my sleeve. Her face was tight with worry. "Don't make a mess of this," she whispered fast. "Smile at him. Be good. Don't ruin it for us."

I looked at her. Then I looked at my father, standing behind her, his big shoulders hunched, his old brown jacket too small for him. He raised his hand, just a little, and touched the edge of my sleeve. Then he let go.

It was the only thing he did. But for some reason, that tiny touch made my throat close.

As we passed the end of the table, I saw Ryan look up.

Just for a second. Our eyes met. His face was strange, tight and tired and lost, like a man who had walked into the wrong house. Then he looked away, and I did too.

The night air was cold on my skin. The black car waited at the bottom of the steps, and Grant opened the door without a word.

We drove in silence.

I sat close to the window with my forehead almost touching the glass. The city slid past, long ribbons of light in the dark. I waited for him to ask. I was sure he would. *What did she say to you? Why were you crying?* Any question at all.

He did not.

Part of me was grateful. If he asked, I would break in half. But part of me, a small, silly part I did not want to admit, wished he would. Just once. Just to prove that somebody wanted to know.

"Damien," I said, to the glass.

"Yes?"

I turned my head. He was looking straight ahead, his face in shadow, his hands folded on his knee. Calm. Closed. Like a locked door.

*Are you using me?* The question rose in my throat and stopped. I was too afraid of the answer.

"Nothing," I said.

He was quiet for a moment. "Sleep tonight," he said. "Tomorrow will be easier."

"Will it?"

"No." His voice was low. "But sleep anyway."

It was such a strange thing to say. So honest it almost made me laugh. Almost.

At the mansion, Mrs. Bell was waiting by the door with a pot of tea, and I took it with both hands and thanked her. Upstairs, I took off the green dress carefully, like it might hurt me, and hung it in the closet. I put on the soft cotton nightgown that someone had left on the bed. Then I sat down on the edge of the mattress and did nothing at all.

The room was so quiet.

Two days ago I had a fiancé. A best friend. A mother who, I thought, loved me in her own way. Now I had a husband I did not know, a ring I could not trust, and a house so big that my own breathing sounded loud.

I lay down and pulled the blanket up to my chin. I stared at the ceiling.

*He's only using you.*

I turned onto my side.

*Boring. Useful. Convenient.*

I turned onto my other side.

But then I thought about the other things. The jacket he put over my shoulders when I was shaking. The handkerchief that smelled of cedar. The way he stood up at that table, in front of everyone, and said *she is my wife* like it was something he would defend with his whole life.

Which one was the lie?

The ring? The words? Or my own stupid heart, wanting so badly to believe?

I did not know. I lay there with my eyes open, going around and around, until the clock on the wall said it was past midnight.

Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.

Slow. Heavy. They stopped right outside my door.

I stopped breathing.

For a long time, nothing happened. Whoever it was just stood there, on the other side of the wood. I could almost feel him. I did not know if he was about to knock, or turn the handle, or say my name.

Then the footsteps moved away. They went into the room next to mine, and the door closed softly.

And through the thin wall, I heard him.

Walking. Back and forth. Back and forth. Slow, restless steps, like a man who could not sit still.

I lay in the dark and listened to it until the sky outside the window turned gray.

If Damien Ashford felt nothing for me, as he said, then why couldn't he sleep either?