Chapter 9
Miley
Eleanor gave me the tour like she was showing off a grandchild’s first painting, proud and detailed and slightly biased.
Every room had a story. The living room had been redesigned three times because Eleanor couldn’t decide between modern and classic and eventually told the designer to do both, which resulted in something that shouldn’t have worked but did.
The sunroom was where she read and drank tea, the garden had a lemon tree she’d planted the year Dominic, her first grandson, was born and a rosemary bush she talked to when she was stressed.
“Plants are better listeners than men,” she said. “They don’t interrupt and they actually grow when you give them attention.”
I made a mental note to always remember that. I chuckled a little too.
When I saw the kitchen it made my knees weak.
Professional-grade everything. Double ovens.
A six-burner range that gleamed like it had been polished that morning.
Counter space for days. A walk-in pantry stocked with ingredients I’d only seen in specialty catalogs, things I used to press my nose against store windows to look at.
Copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack, each one heavy and beautiful and seasoned by years of use.
A knife set that, I was fairly certain, was more expensive than everything in my home kitchen combined.
I stood in the center of it, turned in a slow circle, and tried very hard not to make a sound that would be embarrassing. I failed. A small, involuntary whimper escaped me. Eleanor pretended not to hear it, which was generous of her.
“What do you think?” Eleanor asked, watching me with a satisfied expression. She knew exactly what she was doing showing a chef this kitchen. “I hope it’s adequate.”
Adequate was like calling the ocean damp.
“It’s perfect. More than perfect.” My voice squealed higher than I wanted. I cleared my throat. “I mean, it’s functional. Very functional. Professional assessment.”
Eleanor’s eyes sparkled. She wasn’t fooled for a second.
She introduced me to the housekeeper, a woman named Gloria who had worked for the Vales for fifteen years.
She communicated primarily through nods and the occasional raised eyebrow.
Gloria showed me the guest suite where I’d be staying.
The room was bigger than my entire apartment.
The bed had actual pillows, plural, like clouds had been folded into fabric.
The sheets were white and crisp and had probably never been within fifty feet of a laundromat.
I set my bag on the bed and looked around and thought about the storage room at Aunt Eliza’s house where Vicky and I shared a mattress on the floor.
I recalled my small apartment where I’d been eating cereal for two weeks.
The distance between that girl and this room felt like a canyon I’d crossed without realizing I was walking.
I sat on the edge of this bed that was softer than anything I’d ever owned, pressed my palms flat against the duvet, and breathed. Then I bounced once, just to test it. The mattress absorbed me like a hug from something impossibly soft.
I could get used to this. Which was dangerous thinking for a woman on a temporary contract, but the bed didn’t care about contracts and neither did my spine.
I cooked dinner. That was my job. It was the thing I was good at and the one area where my brain stopped spiraling.
I made a roasted chicken with herbs from Eleanor’s garden—rosemary I’d pinched fresh, a risotto that used the parmesan I found in the walk-in, and a simple salad with a lemon vinaigrette that would have made Rosa nod in approval, which was the highest compliment I could imagine.
I was plating when I heard voices from the living room.
Eleanor and Christopher.
When did he come around? My heart rate spiked. Even though we’d met a few times, the sound of his voice still undid me. The deep, measured tone that carried through walls and made my nervous system do things I hadn’t authorized.
The door wasn’t fully closed. Their conversation carried through the gap.
“How is the wife search going?” Eleanor asked.
A wife search?
I shouldn’t be eavesdropping. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong. Every polite, well-raised bone in my body told me to walk away, go back to the risotto, mind my own business.
I didn’t move. The risotto could wait. My conscience could file a complaint later.
Christopher’s voice was flat. “It’s going.”
“Going where, exactly? Because from what I can see, it’s going nowhere. You’ve been interim CEO for weeks and your life as it is does not exactly present the image of domestic stability that the board wants to see.” A pause, and I heard the sound of tea being poured.
“The board meets again in two weeks. Paul is already making more noises about stability. He called me yesterday, Christopher. He called me to ask if the engagement I announced was real or if I was, and I quote, ‘being optimistic.’ Esmeralda is circling. She’s having lunches with board members. She’s planting seeds.”
“I’m aware of everything.”
“Then act like it.” Eleanor’s voice was firm but not angry. “And now there’s this bar footage.”
“What bar footage?”
“Don’t play games with me, Christopher. Someone in the bar recorded a video. It shows Adrianna throwing water at you, and then my dear Miley stepping in to handle the situation. It’s being suppressed but still, your enemies will try to take advantage of that.”
I thought I’d made that photographer delete that photo? Did another person film a video?
I let out a slow breath through my nose. Good thing she said it was being suppressed. The last thing I needed was another round of my face on every entertainment blog in the country.
“Entertainment reporters have connected the woman in the video to Miley,” Eleanor continued. “The press linked her to you, Christopher. Whether you intended it or not, the public is building a story about the two of you.”
Wait. What?
“That’s the press doing what the press does. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything. Because the narrative is already half-built and it’s the best narrative you could ask for.
A woman who saved your life. A woman who defended you publicly.
A woman the country already likes because she’s genuine and sympathetic and came out of that restaurant disaster without her image getting tarnished. ” Eleanor paused.
When she spoke again, her voice held wonder. “Thinking about it, if you need a fiancée, and you do, the woman the press is already associating with you might be the most logical choice. Maybe we can ask Miley to—”
“No.”
The word was immediate and firm. I stood there, heart beating too fast.
“We are not dragging her into this,” Christopher said. “She’s an innocent woman who lost her business because of me. I already destroyed her career once. I’m not going to repay her kindness by turning her into a prop for the board.”
My breath caught. I wasn’t expecting that. He was refusing to use me. It meant a whole lot more to me than he’d ever know.
Eleanor was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler. “You’re right. She deserves better than that. I’ll look into other prospects. Someone suitable. Someone who understands the arrangement and enters it with open eyes. And you’ll also keep looking?”
“I’ll try. Didn’t think a contract marriage would be this difficult to arrange,” Christopher muttered.
“You need to try harder. You work with women, I’m sure if you try enough you’d find one who will accept the terms. The clock is ticking. Paul won’t wait forever. And Esmeralda won’t stop.”
Their conversation moved to other things. Company business. Board politics. I stopped listening and went back to the risotto, which needed stirring, and my brain, which needed considerably more than stirring.
That night, I lay in the guest suite bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about everything.
Christopher Vale needed a wife. A temporary one. Someone to stand beside him and look stable and convince a room full of powerful people that the playboy actor had settled down. He needed this to keep his position, to protect the company, to honor whatever promise he’d made to Eleanor.
And he’d refused to ask me. He’d said he wouldn’t drag me in.
I thought about Vicky, about the custody case, about the legal fees that were bleeding her dry. The money Christopher had offered for Sazón’s reconstruction was already earmarked—this would be separate, additional.
If I married Christopher, even temporarily, the financial compensation could fund a custody lawyer who actually fought back. It could stabilize Vicky’s life long enough for her to get on her feet. It could keep Eloise with her mother.
Eleanor needed this too. She needed her grandson to succeed because the company was her legacy, her life’s work. And she’d helped me. The trust fund. She’d fought for me when I had no one. The least I could do was fight for her family now.
I didn’t sleep well. My brain ran circles around the same questions until the ceiling started looking like it had opinions.
I woke from a dreamless sleep. It was already morning, pale light coming through the windows, no street noise reaching the room, as if the house was insulated from the world outside.
I found Christopher in the kitchen making coffee. Gray t-shirt and sweatpants, sleeves pushed up, pouring water into the machine. His hair fell loose around his face, dark and uncombed, and without the suits and charm, he looked years younger—softer, almost boyish.
He looked up when I walked in. His eyes tracked me as I crossed to the cabinet and pulled out a mug.
“Hello, Miley. Glad to see you. My grandmother compliments your cooking.”
“It’s what I’m paid to do.” I smiled faintly.
“She said the risotto was the best she’s had in years. And Eleanor has eaten risotto in Milan, so that’s not a small thing.”