Chapter Eleven
ARIA
By Thursday, I'm starting to resent Everett Kauffman's office couch.
I know that sounds ridiculous. The man paid Brookhaven through the quarter.
Handed me a black card like money grows on trees.
Bought me a ten-million-dollar ring and told his stylist there's no budget.
He's marrying me in forty-eight hours to save his inheritance and keep my father exactly where he needs to be.
And still, every time I wake in the penthouse and realize he slept downstairs again, my stomach twists.
He can stand in his penthouse kitchen in a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up and look like a thought I shouldn't be having.
He can kiss me in front of a wall of flashing photography and make it look like he's kissed me a million times before, not just for the second time.
He can put that ring on my finger and say something to his stylist about no limits.
But he can't sleep in the same penthouse as me.
Not where he runs the risk of passing me in the hallway and being forced to partake in small talk with his soon to be wife. A wife he never wanted.
And after La Maison Aurelle, after watching Sienna lean into him like she'd earned the right, after hearing her talk about me like I'm a placeholder someone should probably thank for the practice, his decision to sleep as far away from me as possible, hits a little deeper.
Why did he pick me if he could have had her?
I know the answer. I eavesdropped on it weeks ago outside his office. He didn't want Sienna falling in love with him. Didn't want to risk her wanting more than a one-year arrangement.
So he picked the woman he fired.
The woman desperate enough to climb into his lap in his office.
The woman he can't even share a floor with.
I kill the engine at Brookhaven and grip the steering wheel until my fingers cramp. Then I open my car door and will myself to move. There's nothing I can do about Everett right now.
The automatic doors slide open with their usual whisper, and lemon cleaner hits me first.
"Aria," Gladys says from behind the desk, her smile bright and inviting "You're early today."
"I had some time."
That's a lie. I made time. Since moving into the penthouse, time doesn't feel like mine anymore. Everything's scheduled. Fitted, planned and approved. There are stylists and drivers and security that make me feel important instead of like a girl who used to count quarters for laundry.
I needed one place today that still felt like mine.
"How's he doing?" I ask.
Gladys softens immediately. "Good day. Very good day. He remembered it was Thursday and complained about physical therapy before Lena even showed up."
Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle.
A good day. Thank God.
I stopped at the farmer's market on the way and picked up peonies.
Pink ones, the kind Dad used to grow along the fence in our backyard before everything changed.
Mom would cut them and put them all over the house until every room smelled like June.
I packed up most of her things after the accident.
Bringing something beautiful that might remind him of his garden felt like a way to show him love today.
Dad is sitting by the window when I walk in, one leg stretched, glasses sliding down while he pretends to read a newspaper that's mostly sports photos.
When he sees me, his whole face changes.
"There she is."
I smile and lean down to kiss his cheek. "There you are."
He notices the flowers immediately. "Either I'm dying or you've got news."
I laugh, but it comes out thin. "You're not dying."
"That's good to hear. I had bingo plans."
I fill a little ceramic vase with water from his small kitchen and place the peonies in them and then set them on his dresser and turn to face him.
He's studying me with that sharp, present look he gets on really good days.
The one that reminds me so much of the father I had before the accident that it almost hurts.
"You look nervous," he says.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you’re fidgeting with the vase instead of taking a seat. It looks fine the way you have it."
I sit in the chair beside him and smooth my hands over my blue dress. One of the many dresses that Lana handpicked for me. Expensive enough that I still feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
My father notices everything.
"I'm getting married on Saturday," I blurt out.
He doesn't respond right away. Instead, the words sit between us for a moment, and for one awful second I think maybe I've lost him after all. But then his brows pull together, and he leans back slowly.
"Married."
"Yes."
"To the jerk."
"How did you guess—" I blink back trying to think how he would come to that conclusion. "I mean... You remember him?"
His mouth twitches. "No one complains that much about a person unless they’ve gotten under their skin. A bruise fades. A splinter keeps reminding you it’s there."
That laugh comes easier. "A splinter is an accurate depiction of him."
He goes quiet again, looking at me too closely.
I know what he sees. The ring. The nerves. The fact that I'm delivering this news two days before the wedding like it's something I can keep tidy if I say it fast enough.
"Do you want to marry him?" he asks.
My throat tightens.
This is why I came. Not just to tell him. To say it out loud to someone who loves me enough to hear the cracks.
"It's complicated."
His expression shifts into something gentler. "That usually means no."
"It doesn't mean no," I say quickly. Then slower, because he deserves honesty. "It means... it's not what people think."
He waits. He's always been good at waiting me out. Did it when I was six and lying badly about stealing cadmium red from Mom's paint drawer. He does it now with patience that makes me feel twelve.
So I tell him enough of the truth to survive my own conscience and keep him from talking me out of it... or worse, feeling any responsibility for why I'm doing it. I'm the only one who should feel responsible for why he's in this place. It was my show they were coming to see.
"It makes sense," I say. "We're well matched."
Though I don't tell him why we match so well.
His eyes narrow slightly. "That sounds like business."
I look down at the ring and watch it catch the afternoon light.
"It's not like that," I say.
"Aria."
"It's not. He isn't cruel. He's just..." I trail off, because what is Everett? Controlled. Cold. Careful. Buried alive in his own armor. "He's complicated."
Dad watches me for a long moment.
"Do you love him?" he asks.
I pause to consider.
Do I love a man who sleeps in his office to avoid me? Who fired me, and then agreed to a contract marriage in the same breath, and still looks at me from across his office like I'm some kind of threat to the balance of his life.
My first instinct is to say no, but the word sticks.
Because I don't love him.
I don't. And he warned me not to.
And yet—
My stomach tightens when I think about Sienna's hand on his arm.
My breath catches when he looks at my mouth.
My whole body burns when I think about Saturday night, which should horrify me and instead makes heat pool low in my belly like I'm the kind of fool who forgets her common sense every time he steps too close.
And he paid Brookhaven before I even asked.
He notices things. My flowers. The specific shampoo I use. That I needed peonies without ever telling him why.
He sleeps in his office and I hate that I care.
"Yes," I lie. "I love him."
That makes him smile and then his shoulders ease a little.
"Well then that's a start. But the true meaning of a marriage is friendship. If Everett is your best friend, you'll last forever. Your mother was my best friend."
My eyes sting at the thought of their love.
Of the idea that I'm marrying a man who can barely be in the same room as me, let alone be friendly with me.
"How do I know if we're friends? We've barely known each other for over six months and he's my boss, and I've spent months barely able to stand him? "
He gives me a look. "Sweetheart, your mother married an American she'd known twenty-three days because he dropped fruit at her feet and butchered French with enough confidence to be charming. I'm not exactly in a position to judge unusual marriages."
That catches me right where it needed to. I laugh and wipe under my eyes before the tears can actually fall.
"If you said yes to him, there was probably a good reason. Give him the benefit of the doubt. At the very least... he has good taste in a wife."
He reaches for my hand. His grip is warmer than I expect, stronger too.
"Thanks Dad," I say, squeezing back
"Do you want me to walk you down the aisle?"
I had hoped.
Of course I had hoped.
But hope has been dangerous for a long time now, and I didn't let myself put it into words in case Thursday turned into one of his bad days and the question broke both of us.
"Yes," I whisper.
His hand tightens around mine. "Then I will."
Emotion rushes up my throat so fast it hurts. I laugh again because if I cry he'll feel guilty and if he feels guilty I'll cry harder and then we'll both be a disaster before lunch.
He studies me for a second, then smiles in that familiar, half-mischievous way that reminds me he was a troublemaker, always plotting mischievous things for us to do that gave my mother small heart attacks every day, long before he was a patient. "Tell me one thing."
"What?"
"Does he know what he's in for?"
That makes me snort.
"Probably not."
"Good," Dad says. "Men should always be a little afraid before the wedding. You're tougher than you give yourself credit for and Everett Kauffman just met his match. He's at least smart enough not to let go of a good thing when he sees it."
I smile so hard it hurts. If only he knew that Everett did let go of a good thing. He fired me before I begged him to marry me. However, that is a story for another day... or if I'm lucky, never at all.
I tell him that Everly, Everett's sister, has a tailor that will be coming by tomorrow for a rush fitting to get him into a tux and that I'll let Gladys know when to expect him.
When I leave an hour later after we eat lunch together in the facility’s dining room, I feel steadier than I did walking in.
Not calm. Definitely not calm.
But steadier.
By the time I get to Trinity's studio for the final fitting, I feel wrung out in the strangest way. Raw, like Brookhaven cracked a window I don’t know how to close yet.
Trinity takes one look at my face and clucks her tongue. "No crying before I lace you in, darling. I'm a genius, not a magician."
"I wasn't planning to cry."
"Mm-hmm. And brides never panic, grooms always show up on time, and men who look like Everett Kauffman are always emotionally available."
Everly nearly chokes on her champagne, sitting on the couch behind me, her reflection in full display.
I let out a startled laugh. "You've met him for all of five minutes."
Trinity gives me a look as her assistant helps me step into the gown. "Please. I've dressed enough society brides to identify a commitment-phobe at twenty paces. Lift your arms."
I do, and the dress slides up my body in a hush of silk and structure.
Then Trinity moves in herself, fastening, smoothing, tugging, adjusting with the kind of focus that makes it feel less like she's dressing me and more like she's building me into something flowing and whimsical, yet sophisticated. It's as if both Everett's and my world collided in a dress.
When I finally turn toward the mirror, the room goes quiet.
The gown is somehow even more beautiful than the last time I tried it on. The neckline is softened just enough. The waist fits perfectly. The skirt sways easily with my movement.
Like a bride.
Not a girl playing pretend in expensive white silk.
"It's perfection. Perfectly made for you. My best work yet," Trinity murmurs.
Everly goes suspiciously still on the silk couch, which is alarming all by itself. "Okay," she says finally. "My brother is going to have a heart attack when he sees you."
"Do you think it's too much?" I ask, nerves bubbling up at the idea of Everett seeing me walk down the aisle.
"Are you kidding? I can't wait to see him fall in love with you the moment the silk curtains are pulled back."
I laugh, but it comes out shaky.
Trinity circles me once, then again, and stops behind me so our eyes meet in the mirror. Her expression turns thoughtful, and now I'm immediately nervous.
"I've been doing this for a very long time, Aria.
" She folds her arms. "I've dressed hundreds of brides.
Probably thousands by now. Society weddings, shotgun weddings, second weddings, strategic weddings, weddings where the bride loved the groom, weddings where the groom loved the groom, weddings where one party was clearly there for money and the other was too stupid to notice. "
Everly raises her hand. "My favorite category."
Trinity continues like she wasn't interrupted. "And I have a ninety-five percent accuracy rate when it comes to knowing which couples will make it."
I blink at her reflection. "That can't possibly be true."
"It makes me sound mystical, doesn't it?" she says smugly.
"It makes you sound like you need a hobby," Everly teases.
"Hush. I am having a moment."
Everly grins. "Please continue, oracle."
Trinity steps closer and lightly adjusts the fabric at my waist. "The couples who don't make it are easy.
They care more about the production than the person.
The flowers matter more. The photographs matter more.
The guest list matters more. Half the time they look more turned on by the room than they do by each other. "
"And the ones who do make it?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Her mouth curves.
"The ones who do are never calm."
Everly makes a delighted little sound. "Oh, that's good."
Trinity nods. "They're irritated. Off-balance. Too aware of each other. One of them usually insists it's temporary, inconvenient, badly timed, or a complete disaster—"
Everly points at me. "That's her."
Trinity smiles. "Good. Laugh and breathe and go ride off into the sunset and marry your impossible billionaire. And for the love of God, stop hunching your shoulders like you're headed to a deposition."
The irony is, that if this marriage doesn’t go well, and the trust suspects anything, a deposition is exactly where I will go.
But Trinity doesn’t need to know the gory details.