Chapter 19
GRACE
Warm sunlight filters through gauze curtains. I surface slowly, awareness creeping in. The mattress beneath me is impossibly soft. The air smells of frangipani and something distinctly masculine.
My eyes snap open.
I'm curled against Asher's side, my cheek pressed to bare skin, one leg thrown over his. His arm wraps around my waist, fingers splayed over my hip bone. Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces.
Oh God.
I freeze, calculating. If I move, he'll wake up. If I don't move, I'm actively spooning the man who's supposed to be my fake fiancé.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Still asleep. I could extract myself, pretend this never happened. Slide back to my designated side and—
"Morning." His voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my ear.
My entire body tenses. "I didn't— This wasn't—"
"You talk in your sleep." Asher's fingers flex against my hip, not pulling me closer but not letting go either. "Did you know that?"
"I do not."
"You do." I feel more than see his smile. "About Christmas trees."
Heat floods my face. I shove against his chest, putting space between us. The morning air feels cold without his warmth.
"You could've moved me." I sit up, tugging my pajama top down where it had ridden up during the night.
Asher props himself on one elbow, watching me with those steel eyes. His hair's mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger. Less controlled.
"You looked comfortable."
"I was on your side."
"You were." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Turns out boundaries are more like suggestions when you're unconscious."
My breath catches. His thumb traces my cheekbone, feather light. The touch shouldn't affect me this much. It's just skin on skin.
"Asher…"
"We should get ready." He withdraws his hand and sits up in one fluid motion. "You have yoga with my mother this morning."
A groan rattles my chest. There’s nothing I want to do less than sunrise yoga.
I watch him stand, watch muscles shift beneath tanned skin as he stretches. He catches me staring, and something flickers in his expression. Heat. Challenge.
"See something you like, sweetie pie?"
The nickname sounds different in his morning voice. Rougher. More intimate.
"No." My pulse hammers. "I hate that."
"Noted." He moves toward the bathroom, pausing at the doorway. "I'll find something you like."
Twenty minutes later, Asher leaves me at the pavilion with his mother and the rest of the women on this trip. He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead, all for the show of being my doting fiancée, and then he heads off to the gym.
Discomfort stirs inside me, but I don't think I'd feel better if Asher was here with me.
I'm wearing a teal-blue yoga set packed by Vivian, feeling uncomfortable with the exposed skin between the high-rise leggings and matching sports bra, but everyone else is in similar apparel.
The pavilion is already full. Women in expensive athleisure stretch on mats arranged in perfect rows. Celeste stands at the front, serene in white linen, her arms raised toward the rising sun.
Dove sits on a mat near the front, her blonde ponytail hanging down her back as she stretches her arms above her head.
Several other women I don't recognize scatter throughout. All of them look like they've been doing yoga since birth.
Heat crawls up my neck. I'm the outsider. The girl who doesn't belong.
A staff member appears at my elbow with a rolled mat and a kind smile. She gestures to an empty spot near the back.
I take it, grateful for the anonymity.
But as I unroll my mat, Celeste's eyes find mine across the space. Her smile widens.
"Grace, darling. Come to the front. I want you beside me."
Every head turns.
My stomach drops.
I swallow hard and step onto the polished teak platform, feeling like a fraud as I move toward the front.
"Lovely to have you join us." Celeste's hand extends toward the empty mat beside hers. "Please."
The perky blonde in hot pink on the other side glances over, her ponytail swishing as she turns to stare me down.
I unroll my mat between them, hyper-aware of every rustle, every breath.
"Have you practiced yoga before?" Celeste asks, settling into a seated position with impossible grace.
"Yes." The word comes out smaller than I intended.
"Wonderful." Her smile widens.
Celeste rises to standing, her white linen flowing like she's choreographed every movement. "Let's begin."
What follows is sixty minutes of torture disguised as wellness.
My hamstrings scream during forward folds. My arms shake while in a plank. And even though I’ve been practicing for this, I still flail my way through.
"Breathe into the discomfort," Celeste instructs, voice serene as she watches me struggle to hold warrior two. "The body remembers what the mind forgets."
Sweat pools at my lower back. My thighs burn.
Dove is on the other side of her mother, executing each pose with mechanical precision.
When we finally sink into savasana, I could weep with relief. My muscles feel like overcooked noodles.
The sound of ocean waves plays from hidden speakers. Someone lights incense. I close my eyes and try not to think about how thoroughly I just embarrassed myself.
"Beautiful work, everyone." Celeste's voice pulls us back. "Namaste."
"Namaste," the group echoes.
I scramble to my feet, rolling up my mat with shaking hands. Other women chat quietly, gathering their water bottles and designer yoga bags.
Celeste appears at my elbow. She’s pulled her linen caftan over her yoga set.
“How long have you been practicing for, darling?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Uh, about a month.” Regret flickers in my mind.
Should I have said longer? Does it make our relationship sound fake because I just started.
“Asher told me about your studios, and I wanted to try even though I’d never done it before.
It’s been amazing for my body, but I’m still getting the hang of it. ”
That seems to appease her. "I can see you're not used to listening to your body." Her fingers brush my shoulder, adjusting my posture. "You hold so much tension here. In your shoulders. Your hips."
Dove spares me a glance as she moves toward the exit.
"Come." Celeste links her arm through mine. "Let's walk together to breakfast."
The stone path winds through the morning mist as Celeste steps beside me in fluid silence.
"I wanted to speak with you privately." Celeste angles her body to face me. "About my son."
My pulse kicks up. "Okay."
"Asher is... complicated." She chooses the word carefully. "He's been groomed for leadership his whole life. Shaped by expectations most people couldn't comprehend."
I nod, unsure where this is going.
"He doesn't let people in easily." Her pale eyes study my face. "In fact, I can't remember the last time he brought anyone home."
“Oh...” I don’t know how to respond to that. I know from Asher that he’s never had a real girlfriend before, so it doesn’t surprise me that he’s never brought anyone home, but I don’t know why Celeste is telling me this. “Asher and I…we care about each other a lot.”
"I'm sure you do." Celeste's head tilts. "But caring and being compatible are different things. My son operates in a world of power, precision, control. He requires someone who understands that. Who can move through his circles without..." she pauses, looking at me pointedly, "wilting."
It takes a moment for the words to process in my head, but once they do, the message lands like a slap.
You're not good enough.
“Celeste.” I try to channel a version of myself that’s stronger, more fitting of being Asher’s wife. “We’re in love, and that’s all that matters.”
Her lips press together, like she’s pitying me. “Love.” It sounds mocking coming from her lips. “Unfortunately, love isn’t going to be enough for Asher.”
She’s looking at me like I think this is a fairytale produced by Disney.
Like love is the solution and enough to mend all wounds.
What’s worse is that some part of my brain truly does believe that.
I grew up seeing my parents madly in love with one another, believing that with the right partner, you could face any challenge.
But Asher and I don’t actually love each other.
"Grace, you seem like a lovely girl. Sweet. Genuine. But those qualities don't always translate well into our world. The scrutiny, the expectations, the constant performance required…" She gestures around the retreat. "This is just a taste."
My throat tightens. "What are you saying?"
Celeste's expression morphs into a faux softness, but underneath, I can still see the cunning woman I’m coming to recognize.
"I'm saying that sometimes the kindest thing we can do is recognize when we're not suited for something. Before anyone gets hurt."