Chapter 9
ASHER
It’s been less than a day of living with my new fiancée, and I already can’t stop thinking about her.
I’m not sure what I expected from her, but it wasn’t that she’d hide out in her room all night after moving in.
I thought about knocking no less than a hundred times, but it didn’t seem right. So instead, I just let her be.
I did, however, book her a morning at the spa, giving her a taste of what it’s like being a Caine. And I wanted her to be glowing for these photos, that high-on-love look that will fool the public perfectly.
We're at Bow Bridge, a cliché spot to propose in Central Park, but clichés are that for a reason, and this proposal is going to scream love so loud that no one will doubt it. Well, my family will. My sister will probably analyze our stories and these photos for any cracks in our relationship, and my mother will likely be right there beside her. My father and brothers might be suspicious, but they won’t interrogate in the same way.
But if there’s one thing I've learned, growing up as a Caine, it's how to craft an image.
When I see Grace standing in front of the bridge, my first thought is: I need to give Vivian a raise.
Because the sight of Grace is the cherry on top of my plan.
She's perfect.
For the first time since concocting this idea, I truly believe it’s going to work. The woman in front of me doesn't look like the one who showed up to my office in a frumpy sweater and baggy jeans. She's polished. Elegant. But she still has the modest innocence that Grace wears so well.
These pictures, as much as I dread being photographed, are going to be exactly what I need to present to my family. And the public is going to love seeing me with a docile Midwestern girl who grew up on a Christmas tree farm, a detail so sweet even I couldn't have planned it.
"We need to do this quickly," I tell the photographer, who nods and briskly begins setting up the shot.
I finger the small black velvet box in my pocket as I wrap an arm around Grace and tug her in close.
Her eyes bulge from the contact, and she stumbles into my hold.
Her skin is glowing from her treatments earlier, and whoever did her makeup added shine in the right places and shadows that make her eyes look bigger and her plump lips even more kissable.
Hazel eyes and rosy cheeks assess me, confusion swirling in her irises when I pull her body against mine and press a chaste kiss to her forehead.
Her surprise is adorable. We're in love; this is how people in love greet each other.
But Grace doesn't hug me back. In fact, her body stiffens awkwardly.
"What are you doing?" she asks under her breath.
That isn't going to work.
I dip my head to be closer to hers. "You're in love with me, remember?" I murmur low into her ear.
She jolts at that, pulling back and tilting her head up so she can look at me.
"I'm pretending."
I quirk an eyebrow. "Well, then pretend."
"I'm ready." The woman with the camera shouts. "Let me know when you are!"
"Ready, Miss Morgan?" I repeat the question to Grace.
She swallows, and I watch as her throat bobs with the motion. Her hand is still in mine, and her skin is cold from the winter air. She looks uncertain, like at any second, she might say never mind and bolt from the premises.
But surprisingly, she doesn't. Instead, she takes a deep breath and nods. "Ready."
"You'll need this," I add, tugging a velvet box from my pocket and popping the lid. Grace's eyes drop down to the ring between us, widening at the sight.
The diamond is a flawless six-carat emerald cut, set in platinum, flanked by two tapered baguettes that draw the eye inward, emphasizing the center stone's clarity and size. The band itself is simple, elegant, timeless. No halos. No unnecessary embellishments.
It's the kind of ring that gets photographed at galas, that ends up in Town & Country spreads about society engagements.
Grace stares down at the sparkle like the ring might bite her.
"That's too much—"
"It's not," I cut her off. "The weight of this ring is a representation of my love for you. And I really love you."
Her eyebrows twist. "That shouldn't matter."
"It does, Miss Morgan. Every woman in my life will be analyzing this thing, and if it's not right, they'll know."
"There's no—"
"Are you going to argue with me or put the ring on?"
Grace pauses mid-sentence. She still looks like she wants to argue, but she snaps her lips shut before reaching for the ring.
It slides onto her ring finger and fits perfectly. I knew it would, as I had Margot size her finger for me before I had my man put on the final touches earlier.
Grace holds out her hand like she doesn't recognize it.
"Ooh, yeah, let me get a ring shot!" The photographer leaps forward, snapping photos of Grace holding out her hand.
"You love me, remember?" I lean in to whisper in Grace's ear. Her head tilts up, her wide eyes looking at me. It gives the photographer an angle of Grace extending her hand, looking back over her shoulder at the loving fiancé who wraps his arms around her waist and nuzzles into her neck.
The perfect picture of love.
“Good girl,” I murmur in her ear, and her shoulders drop as she settles against me. “Now smile.” My palm finds the curve of her cheek, and she tilts her face toward mine, lips parting slightly as a smile spreads across her features. The camera clicks rapidly as we move together.
"Beautiful! That's perfect!" The photographer's voice fades into background noise as we continue the shoot, with Grace facing me now, fingers curling into my shirt.
When she gazes up at me, there's something unguarded in those hazel eyes that makes my chest tighten.
Her body language has transformed completely—no more hunched shoulders or fidgeting hands.
Instead, she leans into my touch as if this closeness comes naturally to both of us.
The photographer shouts directions, and we comply easily. When we’re finished, she goes on and on about how perfect the pictures will be, but I’m still thinking about the feeling of Grace’s body against mine.
Afterwards, I walk her back to the car, where Wallace is waiting.
I open the door, helping her into the back seat before sliding in on the opposite side.
We drive home in silence, but I watch as she twists her fingers together, every so often pausing to assess the ring.
She carries that hand differently, as if she’s afraid the ring might fall off or something.
I reach over, wrapping my hands around hers. She doesn’t jolt like she did earlier in the park. This time, her body relaxes at my touch, and I take some joy in the fact that I comfort her.
“You did great,” I tell her, watching to see how she reacts to the praise. Back at the club, after she spilled my drink, and I calmed her down, she practically melted when I called her a good girl. I shouldn’t be exploring this side of her. I should absolutely let there be boundaries between us.
But then again, we want this to look real, right?
And what looks more real than a wife who’s comforted by her husband’s touch? How he speaks to her? The simple things he says that put her at ease? This is just practice to make sure we can pull this off.
It’s surely not because I want to touch her.
Not because I relish the feeling of her skin against mine. The way her doe eyes look up at me.
She blushes, turning her face away from me. "So what now?" she asks.
"We'll run an engagement announcement in the papers next week."
Tugging her plush pink lip between her teeth, she looks down, avoiding eye contact. "Next week?"
"Is that a problem, Miss Morgan?"
She swipes a hand through her caramel locks and sucks in a long breath. "No, it's just…soon."
"That's the point. We need to move fast."
"Why?"
Because my sister's wedding is this summer, and I need to beat her to the altar.
I don't tell her that, though.
"Because that's the arrangement."
She pauses, knowing she signed an agreement and that this is part of it. Then she nods, more for herself than to me, I think.
"Okay," she breathes out. The car pulls in front of the Sanctum building, and Wallace walks around to open her door. When I don’t get out, she looks at me. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I have a bit more work to do. I’ll be home late,” I tell her, and I swear I see a twinge of disappointment on her face. “Lisette will make whatever you want for dinner. Relax. Make yourself at home.”
Wallace pulls away, but I can still smell the vanilla scent of her. Desire courses through me, and I know if I would have gone upstairs with her, I’d break all my carefully constructed rules. I’d comfort her and take care of her, and I’d let all my boundaries slip.
But experience has taught me that getting close to someone always ends in disaster.
So this is better. Space is better. And I decide right now that this is how I’ll make this year of marriage work.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dove storms into my office, the door slamming behind her. I can see my assistant, Mel, standing on the other side of the door, her face turned into a frown. I wave a hand to let her know it's okay.
It's not. But not many people would be able to prevent my sister from entering a room she wants access to.
"Pigeon.” I call her the nickname that me and my brothers have been using since childhood.
My mother wanted whimsical names for all her children, something that matched the Sanctum and Celestia branding.
But having sons with names like Forrest and Bodhi didn't fit my father's perfect family image.
The compromise was that my father named the boys and my mother could pick our middle names, hence how I got stuck with Evern.
But then they had a girl. Unlike the boys of the family, my father didn't care about a girl’s name. So my mother had one child whose name she got to choose.
And Dove Penelope Caine was born.