There’s an impostor staring back at me.
I’m a girl who grew up in a trailer park, but I’m wearing a dress worthy of a princess.
My leg peeks out from the slit that goes all the way to the top of my right thigh. The low V-cut does nothing to hide the flush creeping up my chest, or the way my throat bobs on a nervous swallow.
I drag my fingertips over the beads, skimming over the stars until I reach the crescent moon.
The dress is gorgeous. A work of art.
And I look like I want to bolt out of it.
Vita’s instructions come back to me.Straighten your back. Tip your chin up. Keep your thoughts in your head and off your face.
The red lipstick helps. As does the heavy makeup. It feels like armor. A mask I can hide behind.
I reach for the diamond stud earrings Vita gave me and pop them into my ears.
Just as I clasp the sapphire pendant necklace behind my neck, the front door opens with a distant clang.
Nero’s voice filters through the walls. “Blake?”
“I need a few minutes!”
“I’m going to go change,” he calls back. “Meet you in the living room.”
Meeting Maksim isn’t the only thing I’m nervous about tonight. Nero and I haven’t had much privacy since our preparations started. Vita’s been here nearly every evening when he’s gotten home. She’s helped us rehearse our story and prepare, and by the time we’re done, both Nero and I have been too exhausted to say more than a few words to one another.
The kiss in the kitchen feels like something out of a hazy dream.
The fact that it hasn’t happened again makes me feel like we’ve made it back onto steadier ground with each other.
As friends.
But tonight, I’m not supposed to act like his friend. I’m supposed to act like his wife.
I drag a brush over my straightened hair a few more times and slip my feet into a pair of high-heeled shoes with a pointed toe.
It’s time.
When I walk into the kitchen, Nero’s already there, one hand wrapped around a glass of water, the other holding his phone.
I stop dead in my tracks.
He’s dressed in a black tuxedo that clings to him as if it’s been tailored to every muscle and contour of his body. His hair is swept back from his face, and his beard is perfectly trimmed, highlighting his strong jaw. There’s a watch glinting on his left wrist and hints of black ink swirl from under his crisp white cuffs.
The effect is devastating.
I manage to force two word past my dry throat. “I’m ready.”
He looks up from his phone, and when his eyes land on me, they widen.
The glass slips out of his hand.
CRASH.
I suck in a harsh breath, but he doesn’t even flinch. There’s a dark, hungry storm inside his eyes as he takes a step forward, the broken glass crunching beneath his leather shoes.
My pulse picks up speed. He prowls toward me—slowly, purposefully—like he wants to give me time to prepare myself for what comes next.
