Chapter Six
Seraphina
I STARE AT my reflection in the mirror. It’s me, but it doesn’t look like me.
My hair is twisted up into an elegant arrangement of curls.
I’m wearing a stunning ivory dress with cap sleeves, full skirt and a row of pearl buttons up the back.
It’s the most expensive dress I’ve ever owned.
Half my month’s salary. Surprisingly, I like it.
As I do a small twirl in front of the mirror and watch the skirt flare out, I have to admit, Brenda has excellent taste.
I love the vintage vibe, the subtle elegance.
It makes me feel a little more ready for the Gilded photo shoot.
A little. Maybe like a teeny-tiny fraction more ready. Whether it meets with Aiden’s vision for his fiancée is another matter entirely.
Doubt creeps into my chest. The movie starlet he dated last fall favored name-brand couture with elaborate details like feathers and intricate beading, even a dramatic fifteen-foot train at one of her movie premieres.
Not a vintage-inspired dress that would be more suited for a quiet garden wedding.
The premiere, I remember, that Aiden refused to attend. A week before Thanksgiving. The actress had cut things off via a phone call I’d patched through, wincing as I’d forwarded it to Aiden’s primary line. She’d been furious, rattling off a string of creative curses as soon as I answered.
I’d sent her flowers, like I do to all of Aiden’s exes. She’d sent them back in a long black box reminiscent of a coffin, stems broken and petals shredded. Aiden had merely raised his eyebrows when he’d opened the lid and beheld the floral destruction.
“Better the flowers than me.”
The man is cold. Ice-cold. Yet there was nothing but heat in his eyes as he unzipped my dress at the store yesterday.
When our gazes met in the mirror, I saw his desire, saw the same need in him that was pulsing through me like lava.
And when his fingers grazed my bare back, I had to clench my thighs together at the sudden sensation flooding my core.
I had a sudden, vivid image of undoing his belt and filling my hands with him.
Sinking down onto my knees and taking him in my mouth, bringing him to the edge of control.
The wickedness of my fantasy left me flushed and excited.
I chastised myself for even thinking of my boss that way.
But a small part of me was grateful. It’s been so long since I’ve slept with a man I half wondered if a part of me was irrevocably broken, that I would never be intimately attracted to a man again.
When I walked out fifteen minutes later, the old Aiden was back.
Calm, collected. The limo took us to Central Park South, one of the skyscrapers along Billionaires Row, and past a crowd of photographers outside.
Photographers, I realized with shock, that were there to catch a glimpse of us.
Of me. It made me want to ask the chauffeur to take me back to my apartment so I could lock the doors, draw the blinds and pretend like none of this was happening.
Thankfully the ride up to Aiden’s penthouse in the ultrafast elevator distracted me.
Forty-one seconds, he informed me when I stepped out of the elevator and into the most glamorous, expensive penthouse I’d ever seen.
Stone walls offset by the occasional black accent wall.
Huge windows that overlooked Central Park.
The terrace, featuring a saltwater pool, sunken firepit, and its own gazebo at the far end.
A massive kitchen with obsidian counters that looked so pristine I wondered if they had ever been used.
And my bedroom. It’s like walking into a dream, from the massive bed with its teal-colored velvet headboard to my own balcony with a soaking tub.
Throughout the tour, Aiden acted more like a tour guide than the man who had looked ready to devour me in the dressing room. I was confused, then embarrassed as we walked through the penthouse. Had I imagined the whole thing?
After the tour, he excused himself and disappeared into his office.
I didn’t see him until dinner, a delicious meal catered from an exclusive Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village.
The lobster ravioli tasted like ash in my mouth as we went over our story again and again.
It was almost eight o’clock when he excused himself for a conference call and I tumbled into bed.
I haven’t seen him since. But in less than ten minutes, we’ll be pretending to be an engaged couple in love instead of boss and executive assistant.
What could go wrong?
The thought of posing with Aiden, selling a lie in front of cameras that will document our every move, makes me want to crawl beneath the down comforter on my massive bed and sleep the rest of the day away.
I glance down at the ring on my left hand.
The emerald winks up at me from its resting place inside a circle of tiny diamonds shaped like teardrops.
When Aiden slipped the ring onto my finger, I wished it was real.
Stupid, of course. But it’s the first time a man has ever given me a ring.
And then there were his words, so sweet and unexpected I stood there and blinked at him like an owl.
“It reminded me of your eyes.”
The same line, I remind myself firmly, he’s probably used with countless other women.
The ding of the elevator echoes up the stairs and down the hall. I smooth my hands over the skirt one last time. Straighten my shoulders and do one last check of my makeup.
“Showtime,” I whisper.
I walk out of my room with the enthusiasm of a prisoner walking to their sentencing. But I remind myself as I walk down the long hall with its one wall fashioned of glass that overlooks the city, it could be worse. Much worse.
It’s not even been forty-eight hours, but there’s been no whisper of Brett’s name or my past relationship.
For the dozenth time since this whole mess started, I murmur a quiet prayer of thanks that I listened to my dad and petitioned the court to identify me only by my initials in the records pertaining to my case.
One of the few positives about cutting myself off from almost everyone those last two years Brett and I dated was that almost no one from college or work knew the extent of the abuse.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll get through this with the most humiliating and degrading time of my life staying buried in the past.
I descend the stairs, my fingers wrapped around the railing in a death grip.
The wall disappears, revealing the stunning two-story living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows.
The dark wood-planked ceiling, the low-slung leather furniture done in shades of chestnut, the recessed lighting, all of it screams that a very wealthy man lives here.
A man who is currently standing at the doors leading out to the terrace, shoulders thrown back, one hand on his hip and the other pressing his phone to his ear.
I pause. Even in his own home, Aiden Hawke exudes confidence, control.
And a complete inability to relax.
The low rumble of his voice brushes over my skin like a silky caress, one that heightens my awareness and draws my attention to the dark wisps of hair grazing his collar.
If this were a real engagement, I’d walk up behind him, run my fingers through his hair, give his sculpted rear a playful tap.
Just because he’s not the right man for me doesn’t mean I can’t notice his near-perfect physique.
But he’s not the right man for me. This isn’t a real relationship.
Despite what happened with Brett, I maintain hope I can have a family of my own one day.
A husband who loves and respects me, children I can spoil rotten.
I’ve seen plenty of examples of happy couples, including my own parents.
I need to get out of my own head and start dating again.
Every time I’ve tried I’ve panicked, backpedaled.
I need to keep my focus on fulfilling the terms of our arrangement and off Aiden in any personal sense, including lust. As he stated, both when he first proposed this idea and when he presented me with a formal contract to sign last night, the engagement is in name only.
No sex, no physical touching unless necessary for the sake of the ruse.
With a silent warning to my hormones, I move down the last remaining stairs in time to hear Aiden say, “Believe it, Cass.”
There’s a pause, followed by Aiden’s quiet chuckle. A genuine laugh that sinks into me and settles low in my belly. I’ve never heard him laugh like that.
“Don’t worry about flying back. We’ll be in Venice on Friday for the masquerade.”
Venice? A thrill shoots through me. He’s talking about the annual charity gala he’s hosted every summer for the past few years.
An event sponsored by the Hawke Foundation, a charity put together by the Hawke men with proceeds split between four charities, one for each brother and one in honor of their late adoptive father.
They’ve all invested a significant amount into the foundation, but they also each host their own fundraiser every year, stunning events designed to draw the wealthiest donors and raise awareness of the charities they support.
Including the Violet Masquerade, an opulent affair hosted in the Palazzo Pisani Moretta along the Grand Canal. A literal palace with stunning stone staircases, a grand hall with a frescoed ceiling and jaw-dropping chandeliers that’s draped with flowers and filled with music every summer.
Not that I would know. Everything I know about the Violet Masquerade has come from the pictures posted on social media from the lucky guests invited to attend.
Aiden’s offered to fly me out every year since I started working for him.
But I’ve said no every time, always telling myself it wouldn’t be appropriate, that people might gossip.
Truthfully, though, I didn’t want to see him dancing with one of his girlfriends, wonder what they were doing when they slipped away from the crowds.
“Enough.”
I stiffen at the abrupt change in Aiden’s voice. No trace of warmth or brotherly affection now. Just frozen steel.
“I appreciate the concern, Cassian, but I don’t require any assistance. Go meet your new client and we’ll talk next week.”
He hangs up and turns around so quickly I don’t have time to pretend like I wasn’t eavesdropping. Aiden stares at me, displeasure clearly written across his long, handsome face.
“I’m sorry.” I hold his gaze even though I want to sink into the floor. “I should have let you know I was here.”
He’s frowning at me now, his gaze sweeping down to my nude heels and back up to my new pearl earrings.
I glance down at my dress. “What?”
“You look…” His frown deepens. “Fine.”
Ouch.
“Thank you, Mr. Hawke.”
I use my most professional executive secretary voice. Aiden’s eyes narrow.
“You’re mocking me.”
“I wouldn’t dare, sir. Although,” I add sweetly, “given that you just subtly insulted my appearance, I think I’m entitled to at least one mocking statement.”
He moves, his stride sure as his long legs eat up the distance between us in mere seconds. I can’t help the sudden fluttering of my pulse, the heat spearing through me straight to my core. What is missing as he stops just a couple feet away is fear.
The realization startles me. I’m alone with a man literally a quarter of a mile above the city. The first time I’ve been alone with a man in his home in years. But I know with complete certainty Aiden would never lay a hand on me in anger.
Relief weakens my knees. If I can trust Aiden, maybe there is hope for me yet. Maybe this fake engagement will give me a chance to practice, to get comfortable around a man and start dating again once our arrangement ends.
Aiden slides his hands into his pockets as he regards me. The frown is gone, replaced by a curiosity that makes me want to squirm.
“How many times,” he finally asks, “have I not seen you?”
I blink. “What?”
He steps closer. My throat narrows to the point I almost gasp for air. He slides one hand out of his pocket and reaches up. I tense. The frown returns as his hand drops back to his side.
“Keep in mind we have to convince the world we’ve been secretly dating for six months.”
“Since the office New Year’s party.” I nod. “I’ve memorized everything.”
“Memorization won’t matter if we can’t sell the ruse.”
“Well, it’s a little hard to fake intimacy with your boss.”
A small lie. Yes, it’s odd holding Aiden’s hand and hearing him call me “darling.” But I also like it, like it far too much to let my guard down and just throw myself into the role.
My phone dings. I pull it out of the pocket of my dress, shame creeping in as I read my mother’s message.
Good luck this morning. Your father and I hope it goes well!
“What is it?”
I sigh as I type back a reply. “My mom. Just wishing us good luck.”
He waits until I slide my phone back into my pocket.
“How did they respond?”
“They were concerned.”
I can’t blame my parents for their anger and fear. Waking up to find out your daughter who went through a traumatic relationship is now engaged to the boss she’s been supposedly secretly dating for six months? Yeah, I’d be panicked and pissed off, too.
“But your mom feels better about it now?”
I shrug. After our brief morning conversation, I spent an hour on the phone with both of them that afternoon, then another forty minutes with my mom just before Aiden came back to the penthouse.
Long, long conversations reassuring them I wasn’t being kidnapped or blackmailed, that I truly loved Aiden and he loved me.
How I got those words out without laughing or breaking down, I’ll never know.
“I think she’s just trying to be kind. Make sure she doesn’t push me away.”
The bell for the elevator rings, signaling someone at the bottom is requesting permission to come up. Aiden walks over to the screen next to the elevator doors and taps the monitor.
“The team from Gilded is here.”
Oh God. Thoughts of my parents fade away as my own panic surfaces. Can I do this? Can I actually pretend to be in love with Aiden Hawke?
“You twirled a stick around your neck while the stick was on fire.”
“And?” I ask as I try to get a grip on myself. “I’m the one in control when I dance.”
He pushes buttons on the monitor. A ding sounds, signaling the elevator has started its ascent.
“Forty-one seconds.”
He crosses the room and cups my face in his hands. Before I can even draw a breath, his lips are on mine.