Chapter 8

OPHELIA

I heard three knocks on my door before Charlotte opened it.

"You're not dressed," she said, blinking at the robe I hadn't bothered to change out of.

"I'm well aware," I replied.

"We've got a shoot in an hour,” Charlotte said stepping completely into the room. “The press package goes out at noon."

I didn't glance up from the folder in front of me. "Then reschedule."

Her heels were muted on the carpet as she walked toward me. "You approved this. It is in the contract."

"I agreed to damage control,” I said. “I didn’t agree to cuddling up for some photographer's fantasy."

Charlotte exhaled and fell onto the edge of the couch. "Look, I get it. I do,” she didn’t but I didn’t tell her that. “But they've already gotten the move-in leaked. Paparazzi are camping on the sidewalk of his new place. The only way we control the story is by feeding them a version of it that's flashy and controlled."

I slammed the folder I was looking through shut.

"Where is he now?" I demanded.

"Opposite you in the penthouse at fifth Avenue,” she said. “They did a full prep on him this morning—styling team, welcome photo, the usual PR fluff. There's even a nice picture of him looking contemplative with an untouched latte in front of him."

I rolled my eyes. "God."

"Ophelia." Her voice softened. "This only works if you let it."

"I'm not playing house, Charlotte," I said.

"No one's asking you to." She paused. "We just need one photo. You and him on that balcony. One arm around your waist. A picture where you look like you don't want to stab him with your stiletto."

I said nothing.

Then I stood up, took the outfit the stylists had chosen, and said, "Fine. But if he touches me without being told, I will stab him contract or not."

Charlotte dryly smiled. "Duly noted."

---

By the time we arrived at his penthouse, the sky had paled to that strange metallic gray that made the city look like it had no covering. The air pulsed with static, with cameras, with possibility.

I stepped out of the elevator with Charlotte right behind me.

"He's already out on the balcony," she said. "He’s just waiting for you."

Charlotte trailed behind me as we entered. The room was breathtaking—a museum created by someone with too much money and no warmth. There was a bowl of fake fruit sitting on a gleaming glass table and the smell of sandalwood hung in the air like an afterthought.

And there he was.

Alessandre stood at the opposite side of the open balcony, his back to me, with one hand on the railing, staring out at the skyline like it was going to give him answers.

He looked… clean.

Polished even.

His hair was combed neatly, his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins on his forearms. He was the epitome of redemption, of performed masculinity.

And I hated that part of me saw it.

He turned when he heard me.

And for a moment—a moment only—the world stopped. His eyes locked on mine, gray and guarded, and I could see the thousand things he longed to say but never would.

"Ophelia," he whispered.

I didn't respond. I walked straight to the mark taped on the floor by the photographer.

The photographer guy changed the lenses on his camera and grinned expectantly. "Okay, you two. Just need a few photos of you together. You guys should be close but natural. Think 'comfortable intimacy,'" he said with a smile.

I moved a bit, clenching my jaw in annoyance. "Define comfortable."

"Maybe stand side by side together?” the photographer said. “Place your arm around her waist, Mr. Marcello? Miss Wren, you can put your hand on his chest—"

"That won't be necessary," I cut in.

Alessandre spoke quietly. "I can take a cue."

I turned to him.

"We're going to do this once," I said with a smile for the camera. "You'll put your hand on my waist for precisely five seconds. Then you'll move away."

"Got it," he said.

He moved in close and his hand settled on my waist and even through the silk, I felt it burn like a brand. My spine stiffened and my breath caught in my chest. I prayed to God the camera hadn't picked it up.

"Smile," the photographer said. "Just a little softer."

I smiled and even without the photographer saying it, I knew it wasn't soft.

Click.

Click.

Click.

"Perfect," the man smiled. "Now just turn a little towards each other. Like you're going to say something."

Alessandre tilted his head a little. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"You really didn't know they'd make the announcement?" he said through his teeth.

I didn't look at him. "I approved the press release. I didn't approve your face becoming my brand."

“It’s not like I wanted this either," he replied.

"Then why are you here?"

He hesitated.

"Because," he finally said, "I hoped if I came, I could still fix something."

"Fix?" I turned to him now, really turned. "You think showing up out of the blue changes the past?"

"No," he said. "But maybe it could affect how we end."

"Cute," I spat. "Save it for the interviews.”

"Okay," the photographer said, clearly sensing the tension between us. "Last one. Maybe a close-up? Lean in like you're sharing a secret?"

"No," we said in unison.

He laughed uncomfortably. "Okay… I think we've got what we need."

I stepped away from Alessandre immediately, smoothing the hem of my blouse.

Charlotte came out from the back, checking her phone. "Photos are going up already. Publicist from Harper's needs a statement by four. I'll send a draft."

"Good," I said. "See that it says nothing."

Charlotte nodded. "We'll go over media scheduling tomorrow. There's a morning interview and a joint appearance looming."

"I'm not sitting on a couch with him," I deadpanned.

"You won't,” she said. “It's a high stool setup."

I began to turn away, but Alessandre's voice stopped me.

"Ophelia."

I paused.

"What?"

"I didn't expect this," he said quietly. "Any of this. But I'm not out to destroy you. I promise."

I turned slowly and met his eyes.

"Yor promises mean nothing, Alessandre. You don't have to try," I told him. "You've always been good at that."

Then I walked away.

Because if I'd stayed one second longer, I would've told him how much it still hurt.

And that was something no contract in the world could fix.