Chapter 13
GRACE
Friday night arrives too soon, and I find myself stressing in front of the mirror, tugging at my taupe-colored dress and dreading wearing the matching high heels.
I've been able to ignore the fancy wardrobe of fitted dresses and stupidly high heels Vivian left me. But now that I'm about to have my first foray into the Caine family, I need to look the part.
I’ve never felt much pressure to be dressed up and put together.
Surely not while growing on the farm, when my father was always covered in dirt and my mother in flour.
And not in college when my days were spent in sweats, hidden behind my laptop.
Even at Haven, I wasn’t overly concerned with my appearance, other than wanting to meet the minimum requirements.
But right now?
I’m picking myself apart in the mirror, wondering if my hair is smooth enough and if my curls are flowing in that effortless way.
I’m fixated on where the dress hits my stomach, hoping my shapewear is smoothing it over.
The reflection I’m seeing doesn’t look like me.
Normally, I’d be in something simpler, like jeans and a sweatshirt, or better yet, sweatpants.
This version is in a designer dress that shows off more skin than I’m used to and jewelry that shimmers under the lights and wasn’t bought off the clearance rack at Target.
This version is fake. Perfectly crafted to play the part of Asher’s fiancée.
What will happen if I’m not able to keep this charade alive…
The sound of Asher’s fist rapping against my door brings me out of my head.
“One sec!” I shout as I flip through the hangers until I find the tan camel coat Vivian left me and toss it over my arm.
“Ready!” I swing the door open and step out without paying attention, throwing my body right into Asher’s.
If he didn’t immediately wrap his arms around my waist to steady me, I think we’d both be stumbling backwards.
But we’re not.
I grip his arm, gaining my balance as my eyes dart up to his.
“Oops,” I breathe out, unable to read the look on his face. I’m not sure if he’s annoyed with my lack of coordination, especially in these heels, or if he finds it endearing.
“Careful,” he murmurs. His hand is still resting on my waist, the other on my arm, and he’s looking down at me like he sees something I don’t.
“Sorry if I took too long. I was trying to get my makeup right,” I ramble, needing to fill the silence between us.
“It’s perfect.” His voice is low.
I can’t help but sigh. “Oh, okay, thanks.”
He leads me downstairs, where Wallace waits for us outside.
“My family can be…difficult,” he says, his tone tight. “But you’ll be fine. Just follow my lead, and if you need something or you're uncomfortable, I want you to squeeze my hand, like this.” He reaches for my hand, taking it into his own and squeezing twice quickly. “That will be our sign.”
I nod quickly, my anxiety spiking. “Okay.”
Asher studies me for a minute, and then he unclicks his seatbelt and slides closer to me, one arm moving to the door on the other side of me so he’s caging me in. “Tell me, Miss Morgan, what are you thinking?”
I swallow, whispering, “I’m nervous.”
“Close your eyes.” He’s using that stern voice again, the one that does something to my brain, and I listen, closing them immediately. “Good girl. Now, take a deep breath.”
I inhale deeply, releasing it slowly through my mouth.
“Again,” he demands, and again, I take a deep breath and blow it out.
“Good. Now, I want you to focus on the feeling of my hand in yours.” He squeezes my hand, and I memorize the feeling of his skin, not baby smooth, but not rough either.
When he squeezes it, it’s firm but not painful.
“Do you feel safe right now, Miss Morgan?”
“Yes.” The answer is instant, coming from somewhere inside of me that doesn’t need to overthink every little thing.
“That’s good. Whenever you feel nervous, I want you to come back to this moment, take a deep breath, and think about the feeling of your hand in mine. Ground yourself in this feeling. And then come back to me. I’ll be with you the entire time. Understood?”
I nod.
“Answer out loud.”
“Yes,” I say softly.
“Good girl.” Each time he says those words, they wash over me, sending a tingle throughout my body.
“Open your eyes,” he tells me, and when I do, he’s watching me intently.
Whatever kind of sorcery he’s practicing is working, though. Already, the anxiety has dwindled. “Thank you,” I whisper, and in return, he squeezes my palm.
Ten minutes later, the elevator opens directly into the foyer, and my breath catches.
Marble stretches endlessly beneath my feet, polished to mirror perfection.
A double staircase curves up both sides like something from a movie, and crystal chandeliers cast warm light over oil paintings that probably belong in museums.
And I thought Asher's place was enormous, but this makes his penthouse look small.
"Jesus," I mutter, then immediately clap my hand over my mouth.
If it wasn't clear to me before, it is now.
The Caines are rich.
Not just rich.
Filthy fucking rich.
Richer than I could have ever imagined.
Everything screams money. Cream walls, gold accents, furniture that looks like it was carved by European masters. Even the silence feels expensive here, thick and oppressive. My heels click against the marble, each step echoing like an announcement of my inadequacy.
"Breathe," Asher murmurs, his hand finding the small of my back.
But how do you breathe when the very air feels too refined for your lungs?
Growing up, money wasn't nagging beneath the surface of everything.
Not the way it is now for me. My parents always had food on the table, we had new clothes in our closets, toys to play with, and school supplies in our backpacks.
We weren't rich, by any means; we couldn't have everything we asked for, and my father made sure to instill in us the value of a dollar at a young age.
Weekly allowances taught me how to save for the things I wanted.
Our farm did well. And even though we had one busy season, there was work year-round, and we never went without.
But it was nothing like this.
A woman emerges from what must be the living room, and I know immediately this is Celeste Caine from the images Kacey and I saw online.
Wellness guru and face of Celestia, a brand of self-care items ranging from skincare to yoga mats to clothing.
She has a cult-like following obsessed with her every word and yoga studios around the world where people complete her "Celestia Signature Flow" in 98 degree rooms as if they're worshipping her.
She glides rather than walks, dressed in an all-white caftan that flows with her movements, and her blonde hair is effortlessly pulled back into a perfect chignon. She looks even more stunning than she did in the pictures.
"Darling." She presses her hands onto Asher's shoulders before kissing the air on either side of his cheeks.
Asher stiffens next to me, but he doesn't stop his mother. His hand palms my lower back, pulling me closer to him, and I stop myself from flinching, breathing through it and leaning into his touch.
"Mother, I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Grace Morgan. Grace, my mother, Celeste Caine."
Her eyes sweep over me like a scanner, cataloging every detail from my dress to my shoes to the ring on my finger. I feel like a specimen under a microscope.
"Grace." The name sounds foreign in her cultured voice. "How lovely to finally meet you. It’s a shame we weren’t introduced before I read about your engagement in the paper.
" She says the fiancée with a touch of disgust, and her lips purse, as if she already knows she doesn't like me and it didn't require meeting me for her to form that opinion.
I put on my most charming smile while extending my hand to shake.
"Lovely to meet you."
She regards me for a moment, as if she's thinking about how to tell me that she can't possibly touch me before she lightly places her hand in mine for a brief shake.
Then she looks behind her, to a petite blonde in a fitted pale pink dress who quickly steps forward, spraying her hand with sanitizer.
Am I dirty? Shame wells in the pit of my stomach, but I seal my lips closed.
"I guess congratulations are in order. This all came as a surprise, you know. Asher didn't even tell us he was dating." Somehow, her words make it sound like this is all my fault and her son has nothing to do with it.
Luckily, he doesn't leave me hanging. "Mother," he says coolly. "I wanted to keep Grace to myself for a bit. I'm sure you can understand why."
"Ah, yes. I guess it's quite the spectacle to be a part of this family." She glances over at me again. "The press will pick you apart. Come, let's find my husband. He'll want to meet you."
I don’t have a chance to respond before she spins on her heel, the caftan flowing after her, along with the blonde woman.
"You're doing great," Asher whispers in my ear, squeezing my hand.
I let his affirmation wash over me, and the weight of his hand in mine ground me, filling me with the courage to keep going.
Celeste leads us through a living room that could house my entire apartment, past windows overlooking Central Park.
Everything feels staged, like a museum exhibit titled "How the Other Half Lives.
" I try not to gawk, acting like it's completely normal to be surrounded by this level of wealth, when internally, I'm melting down.
"Leonard, darling, come meet Grace."