Chapter Eight
ARIA
For one disorienting second, I expect chipped paint and crooked blinds and the old heater in my apartment preparing to kick on like it’s possessed. But then I remember that Everett is buying out my lease on my apartment.
Instead, I'm in his penthouse with smooth white plaster, recessed lighting, and the silence of a space so expensive it’s never had to apologize for noise problems.
Right.
Everett’s penthouse. My temporary home.
We met with Christian and Everly yesterday.
I roll over onto my side to reach for my phone on the nightstand when my eyes catch on the ring.
Engaged.
Fake engaged with the ten-million-dollar rock on my finger.
I’m living with a billionaire who fired me, signed a contract with his family that maps out every detail of our fake marriage, and sat across from Christian while he explained that an unconsummated marriage can be annulled—and an annulment means the trust doesn’t count.
There’s going to be a wedding and Everett will be the groom. What I still can’t believe is that I’m the bride.
I take a deep breath and remember what all of this is for. Dad and Brookhaven. It’s worth it. All of this.
I grab my phone from the nightstand.
9:42 a.m.
I can’t remember the last time I slept in this late. If I were still working at the arena, I’d already be dressed, halfway through my second coffee of the day and well into trying to think of new ways to impress my grumpy boss.
It’s still odd to remember that I’m not his assistant anymore.
I’m his fiancée.
Then I remember, I have to call Brookhaven to check on this month’s payment that I need to go down to make.
I sit up too fast and dial before I can think myself into a panic. Payment is due today and I nearly forgot.
A front desk receptionist answers on the second ring.
"Brookhaven Memory Center, this is Gladys."
"Gladys." My voice comes out thinner than I want, so I clear my throat and try again. "Hi, it’s Aria Taylor. I believe the monthly payment is due today for Henry Taylor and I—"
"So funny you should call, I just talked to your fiancé less than an hour ago, Mr. Kauffman. Congratulations by the way. I had no idea. You’re all set. He covered the payment for the quarter."
"Everett already took care of it? For the entire quarter?"
"He said that you two would be out of town for a bit. He wanted to make sure that your father was covered. Is that all?"
"Oh… right," I say. "Yes, that’s all. I’ll be in to check on my father tomorrow. Thank you."
We hang up and I stare down at my phone.
Everett said he would take care of it right away and maybe a part of me thought he would be too busy to remember. That I would have to remind him.
Thank God he’s not standing right in front of me because I would probably jump into his arms and kiss him for doing this for me.
For taking care of my father and lessening the heavy, expensive rock that’s been sitting in my sternum for all these years.
Always worried about paying the next month's rent for him.
Kissing Everett any more than necessary would be confusing and probably unwanted on his end.
My phone dings with a text.
Everly: Don’t forget, designer fitting at 10:30. Driver knows where to go. Wear something cute. You’re about to meet magic.
I instantly head for the shower before I can lose my nerve.
The kitchen is bigger than the apartment I gave up.
That is not an exaggeration.
Stainless steel. Marble. Morning light pouring over surfaces so polished I feel guilty breathing near them.
Matteo is already at the stove when I walk in, moving around the kitchen like a man conducting an orchestra.
"Good morning, Ms. Taylor."
"Morning. But you can call me Aria."
"Aria it is," he smiles.
I slide onto one of the stools at the island. "This still feels like I broke into someone else’s life by accident."
Matteo smiles without looking up. "You’ll get used to it. Just give it time."
"I’ll take your word for it."
He pours coffee just as the door handle to the penthouse jiggles.
A second later, Everett walks in.
He looks exactly like he always does—dark suit, white shirt, tie already perfect, hair in place like the concept of bedhead has never applied to him.
Only his eyes give him away. There are shadows under them like he isn’t getting much sleep.
His expression is more rigid than usual, which I wouldn’t have thought possible if I hadn’t spent six months studying his moods like a survival mechanism.
"Morning," Matteo says.
"Morning."
"Coffee?" he asks Everett.
"Yeah, I could use it."
I move before I think. Grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee and then a sugar and a half and a splash of cream.
Not black. Not pale. Somewhere in between.
I stop.
Both men are looking at me.
"Matteo usually makes my coffee," Everett says.
"You're free to relax when I’m here, Aria. I can handle the food and refreshments." Matteo says sweetly.
Heat rushes to my face. "Sorry. Force of habit."
Everett takes the mug from my hand, his fingers brush mine.
"You don’t have to do that," he says. "You’re not my assistant anymore."
"No." I force a smile that feels thin. "Right. I’m about to be your wife."
The words land between us like a dropped glass, then he takes a sip of the coffee and looks away first.
"Everly said you have a dress fitting. The town car is already here for you. He’s waiting for whenever you want to leave," he says, voice back to neutral. Businesslike.
I climb onto the stool again.
"Thank you."
Matteo sets breakfast in front of both of us and vanishes with timing that feels suspiciously professional.
Everett picks up his plate and mug, and turns like he’s heading for his office.
"You don’t have to leave," I say before I can stop myself. "If you want to eat here."
His hand tightens around the coffee mug. "I have work."
It’s Saturday but of course he still works. "Right."
He hesitates. "We have reservations two nights from now," he says. "La Maison Aurelle. A charity event."
I lift an eyebrow as if that name should mean something to me. "La Maison Aurelle?"
"Kauffman Enterprises is an investor. They’ll hold a table for us Friday night. There’ll be press," he adds. "We need to be seen together again."
The small bubble of excitement that had dared to rise dies in my chest.
This isn’t dinner. It’s a PR move. This is what I agreed to. He paid for Brookhaven. Now it’s my turn.
"Okay," I say.
Then he leaves.
I sit there with my breakfast and the echo of his footsteps and try not to feel stupid about it.
The paparazzi are waiting outside the private entrance.
That is how I learn I am officially in over my head.
One second I’m stepping toward the town car with the driver holding the door.
The next there are men with cameras shouting my name like I’m someone worth chasing.
"Aria! Over here!"
"Is this Everett Kauffman’s fiancée?"
"Smile for us!"
The doorman steps in front of me. The driver takes my arm firmly and gets me into the car before I can even fully process what’s happening.
I didn’t get a text from Everly’s team or Jeremy so this must have been real paps and not the planted ones.
By the time the door shuts, my heart is hammering against my ribs hard enough to bruise.
"I’m sorry about that," the driver says as we pull away. "We thought this entrance was still clear."
I stare out the window, pulse still racing. "I didn’t know they’d know my name."
"The first Kauffman heir getting married is big news," he says carefully.
I believe him.
I hate that I do.
The bridal studio looks like a concrete bunker from the outside.
Inside, it’s a jewel box.
Silk. Lace. Chandeliers. Sketches pinned to corkboards. Half-finished gowns on mannequins with seams glittering in the light. It's what I imagine a mad genius would look like if he liked sequins and tulle and made wedding dresses instead of hats.
Everly is waiting just inside the door, luminous and delighted and entirely too pleased with herself.
"There she is," she says, linking her arm through mine. "Our bride."
"I got chased by cameras," I blurt.
Her smile slips for a fraction of a second. "Already?"
I nod.
"We’ll tighten security," she says. "And tonight’s dinner will help. Once the press gets a cleaner narrative, some of them will back off."
Some.
Wonderful.
Then she says, "Lana is bringing several dresses, clutches and heels for you. She’s working with the family jeweler. He’s going to lend us a few pieces for tonight as well. I told her that you need a knock-out piece."
I blink. "Knock out piece, rented jewelry. Doesn’t this seem like too much?"
"Aria, this is your debut as a future Kauffman. Think of it as your bar mitzvah, your quinceanera, debutant ball… but on steroids with a lot more zeros… billions to be exact."
That is somehow more alarming than the paparazzi.
"I thought this was a dinner with investors?"
"Sure… it is. But we just hijacked it and now we’re turning it into you and Everett’s hard launch."
I’m about to ask more questions when the designer, Trinity, walks out. She’s exactly what I expected that a woman who creates wedding gowns for the very rich would be—eccentric, sharp, and just this side of theatrical.
She hugs Everly, turns to me, and says, "So you’re the fearless woman marrying Everett Kauffman."
Fearless is not the word I would use.
Compelled by desperate circumstances, maybe.
Everly gives me a nudge. That’s my cue to sell it.
"Well… the heart wants what it wants."
Everly doesn’t love it. I can see it on her face, but I’m relieved I’m working out the kinks here instead of tonight the Everett’s investor friends.
Kissing him in front of a crowd was one thing, but now articulating how in love I am with Everett will need some rehearsed words.
We spend the next hour in a swirl of fabric and mirrors and Trinity muttering things like "too sweet," "too vengeful," and "too bridal in the wrong century."
One gown almost gets me.
It’s fitted and soft.
I look at myself and half recognize the woman in the mirror.
Then Trinity says, "Not enough."
My stomach drops.
But her eyes are bright.
"It’s close," she says. "It tells me who you are. Now I can build the version that tells them who you’re becoming."
That should probably sound inspiring.
Instead it makes my pulse jump.
Because I don’t entirely know who I’m becoming either.
When I finally say yes to trusting her, she smiles like she’s just been handed a challenge she’s been craving for years.
As Everly walks me back out, she says, "The board wants visibility on everything. Vendors. Contracts. Plans. We’re not just building a wedding, Aria. We’re building evidence. I’m trying to give them so much that they drown in it."
Evidence.
Not romance or joy.
She’s creating "proof".
The penthouse looks like a department store exploded inside it by the time I get back.
Designer racks. Garment bags. Shoes lined up in rows. Handbags displayed like modern art.
Lana, Everly’s stylist, smiles when she sees me.
Then she says, "Oh… you’re going to be easy. You’re gorgeous, and Everly was spot on for sizing. Are you ready?"
I freeze.
I stand in the middle of a living room full of clothes worth more than everything I own and think about Dad at Brookhaven.
About bills.
About routines.
About the fact that pride has never once paid for memory care.
"As ready as I’m ever going to be."
"That’s the spirit," she teases. "Then let’s make you look like you belong in this world."
The problem is, by the time she zips me into the first dress she selected for Friday night at La Maison Aurelle and turns me toward the mirror, I’m starting to wonder what belonging would feel like.