“What message, Miley?”
“Dominic wanted to see me again. I said no. End of story.” I pulled my elbow free. “I’m an adult. I don’t have to report every conversation I have to you like you’re my handler.”
His expression didn’t change but something behind his eyes went cold. “I asked you to stay away from him.”
“And I did. I declined. I said no. What more do you want from me?”
“I want you to not be in a position where you have to decline in the first place.”
“That’s not something I can control. People talk to me, Christopher. Your brother’s assistant walked up to me. I didn’t seek him out. I didn’t arrange a meeting. I was standing there with a glass of champagne and a man said hello. That’s called existing in public.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. And I’m telling you that you don’t get to decide who speaks to me. Not here. Not anywhere.”
We stood there. The gala continued around us like nothing was happening, which was the particular magic of expensive events. Drama could unfold three feet from someone and they’d keep sipping their champagne and discussing the auction because acknowledging it would be gauche.
“We should go. I'm done here,” Christopher said.
“Fine.”
“Fine,” he repeated.
The car ride home was silent. Christopher sat on his side. I sat on mine. The three feet of back seat between us felt like a continent.
I stared out the window. The streetlights blurred past, the city indifferent to the argument happening in the back of a town car.
The whiplash was exhausting. The warm Christopher and the cold Christopher. The man who brought me peonies and the man who treated me like a flight risk. I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t figure out which one was real, and I was starting to wonder if both of them were, and if that was better or worse.
The car pulled through the gate. Christopher opened his door before Carlos could come around. I opened mine. We walked to the front door in silence, side by side, not touching. He unlocked it and held it open. I walked past him without looking at his face.
“Miley.”
“Goodnight, Christopher.”
“Can we talk about?—”
“Goodnight.”
I walked to my room and closed the door. I didn’t slam it, because slamming would have meant I cared, and I was trying very hard to pretend I didn’t. My chest ached, my eyes were burning, and the evening had gone from the best night of the contract to the worst in the space of twelve steps and one elbow grab.
I changed into pajamas. Washed my face. Brushed my teeth. Did all the normal nighttime things that normal people do when they’re not in love with their contract husband and fighting with him about his brother’s assistant at a charity gala.
I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up. Then closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
I was halfway there when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
My eyes snapped open. Unknown number. A text message.
The message was two lines long.
CHAPTER 19
Miley
The cafe was small and warm, smelling like roasted beans and fresh bread. I arrived five minutes early and Dominic was already there, seated in a corner booth in his wheelchair, wearing a navy sweater that made him look less like a hospitalized man and more like someone’s handsome older brother at a family brunch.
He had Christopher’s jawline but a softer version of it, like the same sculptor had made both faces but used a gentler hand the second time. His eyes were the same blue.
