FIRST DINNER

CHAPTER 6: FIRST DINNER

I stand in front of Felicity's closet feeling like an imposter in someone else's life.

Bright pinks, electric blues, dresses cut to show everything. Nothing here feels like me. Everything screams look at me, notice me, want me. Felicity's entire wardrobe is a performance, and I don't know how to play the part.

Then I remember. I brought one bag from home before the wedding. Just a few things Mother didn't have time to confiscate.

I dig through the drawer where Mrs. Chen unpacked my stuff. At the bottom, folded carefully, is my black dress. Simple. No embellishments. The kind of thing you wear when you want to blend into walls at family dinners.

But it's mine.

I pull it on and it fits like it should. Not too tight, not too loose. Just comfortable. I leave my hair down, no products or styling tools. Minimal makeup. When I look in the mirror, I see Iris. Not the spare daughter. Not the replacement wife. Just me.

It's terrifying.

The dining room glows with candlelight when I arrive. Dominic stands by the window, and for a second I don't recognize him. He's changed out of his suit into dark jeans and a gray sweater. His hair is slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it. He looks younger. Almost approachable.

He turns when I enter, and his eyes widen slightly.

"That's better," he says.

My hand goes to my dress self-consciously. "What is?"

"You. Actually you." He pulls out a chair. "Sit."

I do, because I don't know what else to do with the way he's looking at me.

Mrs. Chen brings in dinner. Roasted chicken, vegetables, nothing fancy. Real food that normal people eat. I'm grateful for that at least.

Dominic sits across from me. The table is long enough to seat twelve, but he's chosen the seat closest to mine. Close enough to talk without shouting. Close enough that I can smell cedar and something else, maybe mint.

"We should discuss logistics," he says, cutting into his chicken with surgical precision.

"Logistics." I take a bite of food, buying myself time.

"The board meeting went well, but people will have expectations. Public appearances. Charity events. You'll need to play the role."

"The role of your wife."

"The role of Felicity." He meets my eyes. "At least in public. Here, at home, we live separate lives. You have your wing, I have mine. We're business partners, nothing more."

Something twists in my chest. Disappointment, maybe. Which is stupid. This is exactly what I agreed to.

"What about work?" I ask.

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "What about it?"

"If I'm going to save your company, I need to actually work there."

He sets down his fork carefully. "Explain."

"You gave me two days to prove myself. I did. But one presentation won't fix everything. The Pacific division needs a complete overhaul. The tech product needs daily oversight to meet the new launch timeline. Manufacturing costs need constant monitoring." I lean forward. "I can do all of that. But not from home, reviewing reports someone else compiled. I need to be there. In the office. Working."

"You want a job." He sounds surprised.

"I want to do what I'm good at." Heat rises in my cheeks. "People will expect me to do something anyway. Charity lunches, board positions, whatever trophy wives do. This gives me legitimacy. And it gives you someone you can actually trust working on the numbers."

He studies me for a long moment. I force myself to hold his gaze, even though my heart is hammering.

"What position?" he finally asks.

"Financial analyst. Let me work on the Pacific division restructuring from inside. Give me access to real-time data, not just quarterly reports."

"People will talk." His voice is matter-of-fact. "They'll say nepotism. That I gave my wife a job she didn't earn."

"Then I'll be so good they can't say anything." I surprise myself with the confidence in my voice. "You've seen my work. You know I can do this."

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close. "You'd have to report to Marcus Chen."

"Mrs. Chen's husband?"

"The same one who's been ordering materials based on outdated projections." Dominic picks up his wine glass. "He won't like being second-guessed by the boss's wife."

"He won't be second-guessed. He'll be restructured out of his position if he doesn't adapt." I take a bite of chicken, chewing slowly. "I'm not doing this to make friends."

Now he does smile. Small, but real. "No, you're not, are you?"

"So is that a yes?"

"Start Monday. Prove yourself to the board, not just to me." He raises his glass. "But I warn you, Iris. If you fail, it reflects on both of us."

"I won't fail."

"No." He touches his glass to mine. "I don't think you will."

We eat in silence for a few minutes. It's not uncomfortable, exactly. Just careful. Like we're both trying to figure out the boundaries of this strange partnership.

"Would you like coffee?" he asks when Mrs. Chen clears the plates. "On the terrace?"

I should say no. I should go back to my room and prepare for Monday. But the way he asks, almost hesitant, makes me curious.

"Okay."

The terrace overlooks the ocean. Waves crash against rocks below, the sound steady and eternal. Stars scatter across the sky, more than I've ever seen in the city. The air is cool, salt-tinged, perfect.

Dominic hands me a coffee cup and leans against the railing. His profile is sharp against the darkness, all angles and shadows.

"Tell me about before," he says.

"Before what?"

"Before you became Felicity. What was your life like?"

The question catches me off guard. "Why do you care?"

"Because you're my wife. Even if it's not real, I should know something about you beyond your ability to read a balance sheet."

Fair point.

"I worked as a financial consultant," I say carefully. "Freelance. Under a pseudonym."

His head turns toward me. "What name?"

"I.H. Sterling."

He goes very still. "Say that again."

"I.H. Sterling. Why?"

"I've read your work." His voice has changed, gone sharp with interest. "Your paper on emerging markets, the one about cryptocurrency integration in developing economies. That was you?"

My face flushes. "You read that?"

"I had my team implement some of your recommendations. They saved us four million dollars in the first quarter alone." He moves closer, and the space between us feels electric. "That paper was brilliant. The analysis, the projections, all of it. I tried to hire you."

"You did?"

"Sent three emails to your consulting address. You never responded."

Because Mother found out about my side work and made me shut it down. Said it was embarrassing, that Hartley daughters didn't need to work like common people.

"I was busy," I lied.

"Busy being invisible?" His voice is soft, understanding in a way that makes my throat tight. "That's what you said in the kitchen. That you've always been invisible."

"Yes."

"You're not invisible to me."

The words hang between us like a promise. Or a threat. I'm not sure which.

He's close enough now that I could reach out and touch him. Close enough that I can see the exact color of his eyes, even in the darkness. Storm gray with flecks of silver.

"Your paper changed how I think about international expansion," he says. "I've been looking for I.H. Sterling for two years. And she's been living in the same city, about to marry me under a different name."

Pride blooms in my chest. He respected my work before he knew it was mine. That means something.

"I didn't know you were looking," I admit.

"I wanted to offer you a position. CFO, maybe. Or head of strategic planning." His mouth curves into something almost like a smile. "Looks like I'm getting you anyway."

"Lucky you."

"Maybe."

We stand there, the ocean roaring below us, and for a moment everything feels possible. Like maybe this fake marriage could become a real partnership. Like maybe being the replacement wasn't the worst thing that could have happened.

Then his phone rings.

The sound shatters the moment like glass. Dominic pulls the phone from his pocket, glances at the screen, and his entire face changes. The warmth disappears. The walls slam back into place.

"I have to take this," he says, already stepping away.

"Of course."

He answers, his voice cold and professional. "Laurent speaking."

I watch him pace to the other end of the terrace, his shoulders tense, his free hand gesturing sharply as he talks. Business. Always business.

He answers the phone, switching to business mode instantly. The warmth in his eyes disappears, replaced by cold calculation. And I realize: this is how it will be. Moments of connection, shattered by the reality of who we are. A fraud and a man who trusts no one.

I'm not sure which is worse.