Chapter 6
Charlie
Four weeks. Half of our arrangement is gone in a blink, and now I'm left staring at the calendar on my phone, counting down the remaining days of this not-so-fake marriage.
I set my phone down on the marble countertop of our suite's bathroom and study my reflection.
I look different somehow, my cheeks flushed with more than just the resort's excellent heating system, my eyes brighter than they've been in years.
Even my posture has changed, the perpetual tension in my shoulders eased by Bash's expert hands each night.
God, his hands. Just thinking about them makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Charlie?" Bash calls from the bedroom. "Have you seen my blue tie? The one with the silver pattern?"
"Check the second drawer," I call back, unable to stop the small smile that forms at the sheer domesticity of the exchange. In four short weeks, we've developed a routine, preferences, habits. A life together.
A temporary life, I remind myself harshly. Four more weeks, and then...
And then what? The question haunts me more with each passing day.
"Found it," Bash announces, appearing in the doorway with the tie draped around his neck. He pauses, studying me. "Everything okay?"
I force a smile. "Just thinking about the Christmas Market tonight. It's a big event."
He steps behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders as he meets my eyes in the mirror. "You're worried about something else."
It's not a question. One of the most unsettling developments of our arrangement has been Bash's growing ability to read me, my moods, my concerns, the things I don't say aloud.
For a man who built his reputation on being charming but emotionally inaccessible, he's become remarkably attuned to my inner world.
"We're halfway through," I admit, not looking away from his reflection.
His hands tighten slightly on my shoulders. "I know."
"And things are... complicated."
Bash turns me to face him, his expression unusually serious. "Charlie...”
My phone chimes with a text alert, breaking the moment. I check it reluctantly, then frown. "It's Miranda. The agency needs me to come in for a meeting. Today."
"About?"
"She doesn't say, but I can guess." I sigh, setting the phone down again. "The transition plan she mentioned it again last week. She's going to try to remove me from the Harborlight account again."
Bash's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking at the corner. "I've made my position clear. You stay on the account, or we take our business elsewhere."
"It's not that simple," I remind him, my hand automatically rising to straighten his tie. "The optics are complicated. The wife of the client leading the marketing strategy? It raises legitimate ethical questions."
"You were leading it before we married," he argues, watching as my fingers smooth his collar. "Your expertise hasn't changed."
"But our relationship has," I point out softly.
Bash captures my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm in a gesture that's become one of his habits. "All the more reason to keep you involved. No one understands the Harborlight's story better than you do now."
His logic is sound, as always. But there's something he's not acknowledging, that our personal entanglement makes professional boundaries increasingly difficult to maintain. Case in point: his lips on my skin right now, sending tingles up my arm despite the serious conversation.
"I'll handle Miranda," I assure him, reluctantly pulling away. "You focus on the investors' meeting."
He frowns slightly. "I'd rather come with you."
"And start rumors that I need my husband to fight my professional battles? No, thank you." I move to the closet, selecting a tailored navy dress that projects confidence and competence. "I've been managing Miranda for years."
"You shouldn't have to manage her at all," Bash mutters, but he doesn't press further. Instead, he watches as I change, his eyes darkening appreciatively as the dress slides over my curves. "You look formidable."
"That's the idea." I slip on heels that bring me closer to his height. "I'll meet you at the Christmas Market tonight. Six o'clock at the Harbor Arts booth?"
"I'll be there." He steps forward, his hands settling on my waist with familiar ease. "And Charlie? Don't let her make you doubt yourself. You're brilliant at what you do, that's why I hired your agency in the first place."
The compliment warms me in a way that feels dangerously genuine. "That, and my willingness to enter a fake marriage to boost your hotel occupancy."
He laughs, the sound rich and deep. "There is that."
When his lips meet mine, it's a kiss that feels like more than just part of our daily routine, it feels like reassurance, like partnership. Like something I'm going to miss terribly when our eight weeks are up.
Four more weeks, I remind myself as I pull away. Just four more weeks.
Miranda's office at Davidson & Young is all sharp angles and stark minimalism, like the woman herself. She gestures for me to take a seat across from her glass desk, her expression unreadable.
"Charlie. Thank you for coming in on short notice."
"Of course." I cross my legs, projecting calm confidence. "What can I help with?"
She slides a folder across the desk. "The board has been reviewing our client relationships, with particular attention to potential conflicts of interest."
I open the folder to find a formal transfer proposal for the Harborlight Resort account, shifting primary creative control to Evans' team while leaving me in a strategic advisory role. Exactly what I feared.
"Miranda, we've discussed this," I begin, keeping my tone professional. "Mr. Sinclair has specifically requested that I remain as lead on the account."
"Yes, and that's precisely the problem." She leans forward, clasping her hands on the desk. "Your husband is making demands based on personal connection rather than professional considerations."
"My work on the account speaks for itself," I counter. "The Harborlight's bookings are up seventy percent since our campaign launched. Social engagement has quadrupled. We're exceeding every metric we established."
"Thanks to your marriage, not your marketing." The words are sharp, cutting.
I straighten my spine. "The marriage was the marketing. It was my strategic concept, and it's working exactly as planned."
Miranda's eyebrow arches. "Is it? Because from where I sit, it looks like you've blurred every professional boundary in the book. You're living with the client, Charlie."
"It's a temporary arrangement," I remind her, the words bitter on my tongue. "Eight weeks, as outlined in the strategy document you approved."
"And after those eight weeks? What then?"
The question hits too close to the uncertainty I've been grappling with myself. "We proceed with the planned separation and annulment, maintaining the strong working relationship we've established."
Miranda studies me for a long moment. "You actually believe that's possible? That you can go from sharing a bed with Sebastian Sinclair to maintaining professional distance?"
Heat rises to my cheeks, but I hold her gaze. "I'm a professional, Miranda. I've never let personal considerations affect my work, and I don't intend to start now."
"Noble intentions," she says with a thin smile. "But I've seen the photos from your public appearances, Charlie. The way he looks at you, the way you look at him. This isn't just a marketing strategy anymore, is it?"
My heart pounds against my ribs, but I keep my expression neutral. "The authenticity of our public presentation is what makes the campaign effective."
"Authenticity," she repeats, the word hanging in the air between us. "Interesting choice of words."
I close the folder decisively. "I won't be stepping away from the Harborlight account, Miranda. If that's a problem for the agency, Sebastian has made it clear he's prepared to take his business elsewhere."
She sits back, her eyes narrowing. "Are you threatening me, Charlie?"
"I'm stating facts. You hired me for my strategic mind and creative solutions. This campaign exemplifies both. The results speak for themselves." I stand, gathering my purse. "Now, if there's nothing else, I have a Christmas Market to attend with my husband."
Miranda rises as well, her expression calculating. "Just remember, Charlie, when those eight weeks are up, you'll still need a job. And Sebastian Sinclair has a reputation for moving on quickly once he gets what he wants."
The barb stings more than it should, touching on fears I've been trying to ignore. "Thank you for your concern," I say coolly. "But my professional future is secure, regardless of my personal arrangements."
As I leave the agency building, Miranda's words echo uncomfortably in my mind.
Sebastian Sinclair has a reputation for moving on quickly.
It's true, his business history is filled with acquisitions, renovations, and sales.
He builds beautiful things, maximizes their value, and then divests when the time is right.
Is that what I am to him? A strategic acquisition with a predetermined exit strategy?
Four weeks ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. Now, after countless shared mornings and tangled sheets, after hushed conversations in the dark and unexpected laughter over breakfast, I'm not so sure.
And that uncertainty terrifies me more than anything Miranda could say.
The Starlight Bay Christmas Market transforms the town square each December, with twinkling lights strung between lamp posts and wooden stalls selling everything from hand-knitted scarves to artisanal cheeses.
The air smells of pine, cinnamon, and woodsmoke from the fire pits dotted throughout the space.