The Wedding Is on Saturday

I had sixty seconds to become the worst man in Crestmont.

"Rule one," Lucien hissed, dragging me into the stairwell by my own robe. "Do not smile."

"I never smile."

"You smiled at the doorman yesterday."

"Because I was being polite. I am a polite person."

"Polite people do not become billionaires." He peered up the stairs, his eyes wide at my tired face. "Rule two. Walk slowly. Like the floor owes you money."

"The floor owes me nothing."

"Rule three. You never, ever say thank you to staff."

"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

"It is how my father raised me."

"Rule four. If Camille touches you, let her. It is her love language."

"Her love language is yelling about coffee."

"Fine, rule five. Do not judge me."

I stared at him. It was strange to look down at my own face and see it so frightened.

"My turn," I said. "If I mess up, you do not faint."

"I do not faint."

"You almost fainted when the pipes rattled."

"That was surprise. It was a masculine surprise."

"In my body? It looked like a girl who skipped breakfast."

"Excuse me, you are the one walking like a drunk duck."

"Say that again, and I will walk right out the front door and tell the press everything."

He glared. I glared back. For two people who hated each other, we were already very good at arguing.

"Go," he whispered. "And please, please do not ruin my life."

"Your life has been ruined since you spilled wine on me."

I marched up the stairs in his bare feet.

The living room was full of light and cameras.

Four photographers stood by the windows. Two reporters held microphones near the white piano. A makeup artist was dusting powder on Camille, who had somehow changed into a pale pink silk dress in under five minutes. And in the center of it all, standing like a statue in a black suit, was Victor Ashford.

I had seen him a hundred times in the hallway. I had never stood this close.

He was sixty, tall, with gray hair and eyes like polished steel. He did not smile when he saw me. He looked at me like a man checking a stock price.

"You are late," he said.

"I was in the bathroom," I said.

"And why are you wearing a bathrobe?"

"It cost four thousand dollars," I said. "I am told it is very warm."

A reporter made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.

"You have never been late in your life."

"I am turning over a new leaf."

The room went quiet. A reporter coughed.

Victor's eyebrow rose by one millimeter. "Do not be clever in front of the press, Lucien."

"Yes, sir."

"And do not call me sir."

"Yes, Father."

"And stand straight."

I was standing straight. I was standing so straight I could feel my spine crack.

Somewhere behind me, a photographer whispered, "He looks different today." Another whispered, "He looks scared."

I was scared. I was so scared my knees felt like jelly under a very expensive robe.

Camille floated up beside me, wrapped her arm around mine, and whispered in my ear, "You are acting so odd today, darling. It is making me nervous."

"I am nervous too."

"Why? It is only an engagement." She giggled and ran her fingers up my arm. "I told everyone you would be thrilled."

I glanced toward the doorway.

Lucien stood there in my maid uniform, holding a silver tray of champagne with both hands. He was shaking so much that the glasses clinked together like tiny bells. When Camille's fingers slid up my arm, his eyes narrowed, and he looked ready to throw the tray. When our eyes met, he made a small, desperate face that said, Help.

"Servant," Camille said without looking at him. "Take my coat. And do not drop it; I know how clumsy your kind is."

Lucien's mouth fell open. I saw it happen. He, the proudest man in Crestmont, standing in a uniform that was a size too small, hearing the words he had said to me a hundred times.

"I am not a..." he began.

"Do as she says, girl," I said.

He turned to me slowly, and his gray eyes in my small face burned with pure hatred.

I smiled. Just a little. I could not help it.

"Rule one," he mouthed.

I wiped the smile away.

Lucien set down the tray, took Camille's coat with two fingers as if it were a dead mouse, and went to hang it. Every few steps, he glanced over his shoulder at us with the look of a man who was plotting a murder.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Victor said, and the cameras lifted.

Everyone turned toward him. Victor Ashford did not need a microphone. His voice filled the room all by itself.

"Today I have the honor of announcing a union between two great families. The Ashford Group and Dupont Luxury have been partners for twenty years. Now they will be partners for life."

Flashbulbs popped. Camille squeezed my arm.

Lucien dropped the coat.

"My son," Victor continued, "has finally decided to settle down."

"I did?" I said.

Victor looked at me.

"I mean, I did," I said, and tried to keep my voice low and cold. "Yes. Of course. I decided that. Just now."

Camille's smile widened. A man in the back of the room scribbled something in a notebook.

Victor took a velvet box from his pocket and held it out. When I did not move, he pushed it into my hand.

Inside was a diamond ring the size of a grape.

My stomach twisted. I knew nothing about this world. I was a maid. I was a girl who counted coins to buy bread, and I was standing in front of cameras holding a ring that cost more than every apartment I had ever lived in.

I could say yes. Lucien would murder me. Maybe literally, since he was now in a very small, very weak body, but he would try.

I could say no. Then Victor would be furious, the press would explode, and Lucien's reputation would fall apart before we even had a chance to fix this.

I looked across the room. Lucien had come back and was standing near the piano, holding Camille's coat like a shield, shaking his head so hard his brown ponytail whipped from side to side.

No. No. No. No.

I looked at Camille. She was gazing up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. Despite everything she had said about me, she looked young. Nervous. Almost sweet.

I did not know where the idea came from. Maybe from two years of watching Lucien Ashford run his life like a sinking ship and making excuses for every hole. Whatever it was, it was the stupidest idea of my life, and it walked straight into my head.

"Camille," I said.

She nodded eagerly.

I dropped to one knee.

The whole room gasped. Someone said, "He is kneeling!" Someone else said, "Lucien Ashford is kneeling!" In the corner, a photographer fell over a lamp.

Lucien's mouth opened in a silent scream.

"Camille Dupont," I said. "You are an amazing woman. You are beautiful, you are brave, and you have never once let me forget it."

The reporters laughed. Camille laughed too, with tears in her eyes.

"And because I respect you so much," I went on, "I think this proposal needs to be perfect. So I am going to ask you for one small thing." I took a breath. "Give me one week. One week to plan the proposal you deserve."

Silence.

Then Camille squealed. "A week! Oh, darling! You want to do it properly!"

The crowd burst into applause. Flashbulbs flared like lightning. Lucien slumped against the piano and pressed a hand to his heart in relief. I almost laughed. I had done it. I had bought us a week.

"A week?"

Victor's voice cut through the noise like a knife.

The room went still again.

"That will not be necessary," he said coolly. "I have already booked the church. The guests are invited. The dress is being fitted as we speak."

"What?" I said.

"The wedding," Victor said, "is on Saturday."

The reporters gasped. Camille squealed again, louder. I stayed frozen on one knee with a diamond ring in my hand and a heartbeat that had completely stopped.

Saturday. It was Wednesday. Four days to marry a woman I barely knew, in a body that was not mine.

And then, from across the room, I heard a sound that I will never forget.

A soft, tragic sigh.

A thud.

I turned my head. My own body, in a size-too-small maid uniform, lay flat on the marble floor beside the piano. Lucien Ashford had fainted.

Every camera in the room swung toward the maid.

"Who," Victor said slowly, staring at her, "is that girl?"