Chapter 3 ~ The Fiance

I heard him before I saw him, unhurried footsteps on marble that somehow still managed to sound like a warning, like a man who had never once in his life needed to walk quickly toward anything, because everything simply waited for him to arrive.

I came down the stairs because staying hidden felt more dangerous than being seen, smoothing the borrowed silk of my robe, arranging my face into the practiced, unbothered calm Renata had spent two weeks drilling into me. Isabelle doesn't ask for things. Isabelle expects them.

Arlo Alfie stood in the entryway like he owned the marble under his feet, which, I would later learn, he technically did, his family held the mortgage on half the properties in this district, this house included. He was younger than I'd expected from the file photos, dark-suited despite the hour, tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd come straight from somewhere that had already exhausted him. His eyes found me on the staircase and stopped there, sharp and assessing, the particular stillness of a man doing careful, silent math.

"You're not sleeping," he said, instead of a greeting, instead of anything resembling small talk. "Neither am I. Seemed like an efficient time to finally meet my fiancée in person instead of through lawyers."

"You could have called," I said, proud of how steady my voice came out, even as my pulse hammered somewhere near my throat.

"I don't like phones for things that matter." He crossed the entryway slowly, closing the distance between us with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never once been told no and meant it. "And you, Isabelle, currently matter a great deal to my family's balance sheet."

"How romantic."

Something flickered at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, there because he'd allowed it rather than because he couldn't help it. "I wasn't aware romance was part of this arrangement. Were you?"

I held his gaze, forcing myself not to look away first, though every instinct screamed at me to. "No," I said. "I wasn't."

"Good. Then we understand each other already. That's more than I can say for most of the women my family has tried to attach me to." He stopped a few feet from the staircase, close enough now that I could see the tiredness under his composure, a man running on far less rest than his posture let on. "You've changed."

My stomach dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Your hair," he said, gesturing vaguely, and I forced myself to exhale, forced my expression to stay perfectly, carefully unbothered. "Shorter than the last photograph I saw. And you used to wear more jewelry. Simplified your look. I approve."

I hadn't cut my hair. Isabelle had, apparently, at some point Mia's four hundred pages hadn't fully accounted for, and I'd simply matched what the most recent photographs showed without understanding it marked a change at all. A small, terrifying gap in the performance, patched over by accident rather than skill.

"People change," I said carefully. "It's been a while since anyone in your family bothered to actually look at me long enough to notice."

That landed somewhere real. I watched it land, a flicker of something almost like guilt crossing his face before he smoothed it away, replaced it with the same controlled confidence he'd walked in wearing. "Fair," he admitted. "This arrangement was never really about either of us as people. I imagine you know that as well as I do."

"Then why are you here at midnight instead of waiting for the wedding like a reasonable person?"

"Because I wanted to see your face when you didn't know I was watching for it," he said, and something in his tone shifted, quieter now, more deliberate. "People tell me a great deal about themselves in unguarded moments. I find it useful, in negotiations. Marriages included."

My blood went cold beneath the careful stillness I was holding onto with everything I had. "And what did my face tell you?"

He studied me for a long moment, close enough now that I could see the exact shade of his eyes, dark and unreadable, close enough that the air between us felt thinner than it should have.

"That you're frightened of something," he said finally, quiet enough that it felt almost private, almost gentle, which was somehow more unsettling than if he'd said it cruelly. "And it isn't me."

I didn't answer. I couldn't, not without confirming something I wasn't ready to hand him.

"Careful, Isabelle," he said, stepping back at last, putting proper distance between us again as though he'd simply been testing how close he could get before I broke. "I collect secrets the way other men collect watches. And I have a feeling yours are going to be worth quite a lot to me eventually."

He left as unhurriedly as he'd arrived, footsteps fading back down the marble hallway toward the door, leaving me standing frozen on the staircase with my heart hammering and one single, terrifying certainty crystallizing in my chest.

Arlo Alfie didn't fully believe I was Isabelle Ashworth.

He just hadn't decided yet whether that mattered to him.

I stood on that staircase a long time after the front door closed behind him, listening to the sound of his car pulling away down the gravel drive, my pulse refusing to settle back into anything resembling calm. When I finally turned around, Mia was standing in the hallway below, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite place something between calculation and genuine surprise.

"What did he say to you," she asked, not a question so much as a demand.

"He noticed my hair was different from the photographs," I said. "And he told me I looked frightened. Of something that wasn't him."

Mia's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "He's testing you already. That's faster than I expected, even for him."

"You told me he wasn't due until tomorrow."

"I told you what the schedule said," she corrected, already turning to climb the stairs past me, her heels sharp against the marble. "Arlo Alfie has never once in his life followed a schedule that wasn't his own. Get some sleep, Isabelle. Whatever else happens, you'll need to be sharper than you were tonight."

She said my borrowed name so easily now, three weeks in, that I barely flinched at it anymore which frightened me more than the visit itself had. I was starting to answer to a dead woman's name faster than I answered to my own.