Chapter 9 - Performance Art

Mara POV

The dress fits like it was designed for my body specifically.

I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back. The midnight blue gown hugs every curve, falls to the floor in a waterfall of silk. My hair is styled in soft waves. My makeup is flawless—done by a professional who arrived at four o'clock and transformed me into someone who belongs in Lucien's world.

I look expensive. Elegant. Empty.

Diana helped me zip up the dress before leaving for her Saturday night plans. She'd taken one look at me and said, "You look like a princess trapped in a tower."

She wasn't wrong.

A knock on my bedroom door makes me jump.

"Mara?" Lucien's voice is muffled through the wood. "Car's here."

I take one last look at the stranger in the mirror, then open the door.

Lucien stands in the hallway wearing a black tux that probably costs more than most people's cars. His dark hair is perfectly styled. His steel-blue eyes sweep over me, and for just a moment, something flickers across his face.

Appreciation? Surprise? It's gone before I can name it.

"You look appropriate," he says flatly.

"You look like you're attending a funeral." I grab my clutch—also provided, also expensive. "How fitting."

His jaw tightens, but he extends his arm. "Shall we?"

I take it because the contract requires it. His arm is solid under my hand. He smells like expensive cologne and control.

The drive to The Lotus Garden is silent except for the soft hum of the engine. Lucien scrolls through his phone. I stare out the window, watching Ravenstone City blur past in streaks of light.

"When we're inside," he says suddenly, not looking up from his phone, "we need to appear comfortable with each other."

"Define comfortable."

"Familiar. Like we've been married for months." He finally looks at me. "Not like strangers performing a script."

"But we are strangers performing a script." I meet his gaze. "That's literally what this is."

"I'm aware." He pockets his phone. "But no one else can know that."

The restaurant is everything I expected—white tablecloths, crystal chandeliers, waiters who move like dancers. Every table is occupied by people in designer clothes, speaking in hushed tones about mergers and markets and money.

The maître d' recognizes Lucien immediately.

"Mr. Cross! So wonderful to see you again." He practically bows. "And this must be the new Mrs. Cross. Congratulations on your recent nuptials."

"Thank you," I manage, my smile feeling plastic.

We're escorted to a private table by the window overlooking the city. Lucien pulls out my chair, his hand brushing my bare shoulder as I sit. The touch is light, brief, probably looks chivalrous to anyone watching.

It makes my skin crawl.

He sits across from me, immediately signaling a waiter. "Champagne. The Cristal."

"Of course, Mr. Cross."

We're alone at our table, but I'm acutely aware of eyes on us. Other diners glancing over. Recognizing him. Assessing me. Wondering if I'm worth the Cross fortune.

"They're staring," I whisper.

"They're curious." Lucien leans back in his chair, perfectly relaxed. "Lucien Cross's mysterious bride. The woman who appeared out of nowhere and landed one of the city's most eligible bachelors."

"Is that what the gossip columns are saying?" I resist the urge to fidget with my napkin.

"Among other things." His eyes meet mine across the table. "Some suggest you're a gold-digger. Others think it's a whirlwind romance. A few conspiracy theorists believe I got you pregnant."

My face burns. "That's…"

"Ridiculous. I know." The champagne arrives. He waits while the waiter pours, then raises his glass. "To my beautiful wife."

The words are honey-coated poison. I raise my glass, forcing a smile.

"To my generous husband." The sarcasm is subtle enough that only he catches it.

His eyes flash with something—amusement? Annoyance?—but his smile never wavers.

We sip champagne that probably costs more than my family's monthly grocery bill.

"Touch my hand," Lucien says quietly.

"What?"

"Touch my hand. We're supposed to be newlyweds." He places his hand on the table between us, palm up. An offering. A command. "People are watching."

I force myself to reach across the table, placing my hand in his. His fingers close around mine—warm, firm, possessive. To anyone watching, it probably looks romantic. Intimate.

I feel like I'm touching an electrical fence.

"Smile," he murmurs, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. "You look like you're being tortured."

"Aren't I?" But I smile anyway, wide and bright and completely fake.

"That's better." He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Now tell me something personal. Something that makes me laugh. We need to look engaged with each other."

"I don't know anything personal about you." I keep my smile plastered on. "You're a complete stranger who bought a wife."

"Then improvise." His grip on my hand tightens slightly. "Pretend you like me. Pretend this is real."

The waiter returns to take our orders. Lucien orders for both of us without asking what I want. Of course he does.

When the waiter leaves, Lucien lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles while maintaining eye contact. It's a practiced move. Smooth. Designed to look spontaneous and romantic.

It's the most calculated thing I've ever seen.

"How am I doing?" he asks softly. "Convincing enough?"

"You're a natural liar." I pull my hand back the moment I can. "I'm almost impressed."

His smile turns sharp. "We have that in common, then."

The meal is torture. Every course is accompanied by performance art—him leaning in to whisper something that sounds intimate but is really a reminder to smile more, laugh at the right moments, touch his arm when he tells a story. I play along because what choice do I have?

Between the main course and dessert, a man in an expensive suit approaches our table. Late fifties, silver hair, the kind of confidence that comes from old money.

"Lucien! I thought that was you." The man grins widely. "I heard congratulations are in order."

Lucien stands, shaking the man's hand. "Marcus. Good to see you."

Marcus. The name triggers a memory from my research—Marcus Hale, real estate developer, one of Lucien's business rivals. The man Evelyn had an affair with.

"And this must be the bride." Marcus turns his attention to me, his eyes sweeping over me in a way that makes me want to shower. "Marcus Hale. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cross."

"Mara," I say, staying seated. "The pleasure is mutual."

"How did you two meet?" Marcus looks between us, genuinely curious. "The announcement was so sudden. Very romantic."

Lucien's hand comes to rest on my shoulder, his fingers tightening slightly. A warning.

"It was one of those things," Lucien says smoothly. "We met at a charity gala. She was the most beautiful woman in the room."

I was serving champagne and dumped a tray at his feet, but sure, let's go with beautiful.

"Love at first sight?" Marcus grins.

"Something like that." Lucien's thumb strokes my bare shoulder in what probably looks like affection. "I knew immediately she was different from anyone I'd ever met."

That part is technically true. I was the first person to tell him to go to hell.

"And you, Mara?" Marcus turns his predatory focus on me. "What made you fall for this cold-hearted bastard?" He laughs like it's a joke.

The question hangs in the air. Lucien's fingers dig into my shoulder. Everyone's watching. Waiting.

I stand slowly, moving to Lucien's side. His arm immediately wraps around my waist, pulling me close. For the cameras. For the performance.

"He made me an offer I couldn't refuse," I say sweetly, looking up at Lucien with what I hope looks like adoration. "And he's been surprising me ever since."

It's the most honest thing I've said all night. Lucien's expression doesn't change, but I feel his body tense against mine.

Marcus laughs, oblivious to the undercurrent. "Well, you're a lucky man, Lucien. Don't screw it up."

"I don't plan to." Lucien's voice is smooth, but his grip on my waist is iron. "Enjoy your meal, Marcus."

After Marcus leaves, Lucien guides me back to my seat, his hand lingering on my lower back a moment too long. We sit. Resume eating. Continue the performance.

But something has shifted. The air between us feels charged, dangerous.

When the check arrives—not that we see it; Lucien just signs something—he stands and offers his hand. "Ready to go home?"

Home. The word is laughable.

I take his hand, let him guide me through the restaurant, let him help me into my coat. Every touch is performed for the audience of Ravenstone City's elite.

In the car, the privacy screen is up, but the driver can still see us through the rearview mirror. Lucien keeps his hand on my thigh—high enough to look intimate, not high enough to be inappropriate.

We drive through the city in silence, his hand a hot brand through the silk of my dress.

"You did well tonight," he says quietly, still not looking at me. "Very convincing."

"I told you." I stare out the window. "I'm a good liar."

His hand tightens on my thigh. "That line about me making you an offer you couldn't refuse. Was that intentional?"

"What do you think?"

He finally looks at me, his steel-blue eyes unreadable in the darkness. "I think you're getting better at this game."

"It's not a game, Lucien." I turn to face him. "It's my life. For the next two years."

"And you hate every second of it."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."

He nods slowly, his jaw working. His hand is still on my thigh, warm through the silk. For the driver's benefit, I tell myself. Still performing.

The car pulls through the gates of Cross Manor. The house looms against the night sky—all glass and steel and cold perfection.

Before I can reach for the door handle, Lucien leans closer. His breath is warm against my ear, his hand sliding higher on my thigh in a way that makes my heart race….