Trapped in Marriage (The Trapped Ice Queens #5)
Chapter 1
Rose
Rose found the children’s Tylenol and shook two tablets into her palm—chalky, pink circles that smelled faintly of artificial grape—filled Daisy’s favorite Care Bears cup with water, and carried them back to the bedroom.
Daisy was propped against her pillows, her small face set in an expression of profound betrayal.
At five years old, Daisy Delaney had already mastered the art of the silent protest. She looked like a tiny, disgruntled empress whose kingdom had been reduced to a heap of crumpled tissues and a color-changing humidifier.
“These are gross,” Daisy said, eyeing the pills as if they were poison. Rose suppressed a tired smile while sitting down on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked. “They’ll make your head stop hurting, Bug. And if your head stops hurting, you can actually enjoy the penguin show. Open up.”
Daisy accepted the medicine with the sweeping drama of a Greek tragedy, reclining back into the pillows and chasing the pills with the entire cup of water as if she were a weary traveler at a desert oasis.
Rose took the cup and pulled the comforter up to her daughter’s chin, tucking the edges in tight.
“Grandma’s almost here,” Rose said. “You’re going to watch the penguin show, eat crackers, and have a quiet day.”
“Can I watch three episodes?” Daisy’s voice was hopeful, a small crack in the imperial facade.
“You can watch as many as you want.”
Outside, a car horn honked. It was the cheery, rhythmic double-tap that was her mother’s signature.
At the exact same second, Rose’s phone buzzed on the nightstand.
An unrecognized number. In Rose’s world, an unrecognized number was a Schrodinger’s Cat of anxiety: it was either a new lead, or a debt collector.
She ignored the call, grabbed her slightly worn Chanel blazer from the hook behind the door, and checked the hallway mirror.
The woman in the reflection looked like she’d had four hours of sleep and a lukewarm cup of coffee, which was a generous estimate.
Her skin was sallow under the harsh hall light, and there were dark crescents under her eyes that no amount of concealer could truly mask.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a tube of deep purple lipstick—her “battle” color. She smoothed her hair; the black dye was holding for now, but the blonde roots at her temples were starting to whisper the truth about her natural color.
The phone buzzed again. Same number. Persistence usually meant debt collector. She picked up as she headed for the front door, balancing her laptop bag on her shoulder.
“Rose Delaney Events, this is Rose speaking.”
“Miss Delaney? This is Paul from Meridian Credit Services. We’re calling regarding your account ending in 4022—”
The morning air was already beginning to shimmer with heat. Her mother was climbing out of her car, hauling a floral tote bag that looked heavy enough to contain a small tractor engine. “I’ve been meaning to call you back, but my daughter is sick and my schedule is—”
“We’d like to discuss a formal payment arrangement to avoid further escalation to our legal department—”
“I’d love to discuss one, too. Truly. The problem is that talking doesn’t create capital, and capital is currently what I’m lacking. I have a meeting today that could change that. A big one. Can I call you Thursday?”
There was a pause on the other end, the sound of a keyboard tapping. “Miss Delaney, the account is sixty days past due. We’ve been very patient.”
“Thursday at noon,” Rose said, her voice hardening. “We’re going to figure this out, but I need until Thursday to see if the ink dries on this contract. Goodbye, Paul.”
“She’s in bed,” Rose told her mother as they crossed paths on the walkway. “And Mom, we have food in the house. You didn’t need to bring the entire grocery store.”
Her mother smiled, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear—the same shade Rose was currently hiding. “I brought toys, a snuggle blanket, and soup. You don’t have the kind of blankets with sleeves, Rose. If we’re going to be in on the couch all day watching TV, we need the proper equipment.”
Rose squeezed her mother’s arm, a quick, desperate burst of gratitude. “I’m late. I have a movie star to impress.”
“So go,” her mother waved her off. “Go be brilliant. Impress the star and the fiancée. I’ve got Bug. Just remember to breathe, Rose.”
***
The drive to Hollywood Hills was an exercise in mounting, high-octane anxiety.
As the strip malls and gas stations gave way to the rolling green cathedrals of the wine country, Rose felt the familiar weight in her chest. The GPS took her off the highway and onto a private lane that was more manicured hedge than road.
Then, as if to mock her, the signal bars on her phone vanished.
“Great. Perfect. Of course,” Rose muttered to the dashboard.
She pulled over onto the shoulder, waited for the map to cache, and prayed the blue line would reappear.
If she was late, it was over. People like Lizanne Connors didn’t wait for people like Rose Delaney.
It was a miracle she’d managed to get a meeting for this wedding anyway.
She pulled up to the gatehouse with exactly four minutes to spare.
The gatehouse alone was larger than Rose’s entire two-bedroom apartment.
A security guard who looked like he’d been carved out of a single block of granite checked her ID against a digital list. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod; he just waved her through into a world where the grass was a shade of green that felt illegal.
Rose parked her aging sedan a respectful distance from the gleaming, black SUVs in the driveway.
She checked the mirror one last time. Her lipstick had migrated—she’d been chewing her lip again, a nervous habit that tasted like berries and iron.
She fixed the smudge, ran a finger over her teeth to clear any purple stains, and stepped out into the dry, pressing heat.
An actual butler opened the door. Rose stepped into the foyer and was immediately hit by the air-conditioned silence of true wealth. The air tasted different here: filtered, expensive, and faintly scented with sandalwood.
A woman cut across the entrance hall with a speed that suggested every second was being billed. She wore a black suit and a ponytail pulled so tight it looked like a surgical procedure. Pat Seahorn – Lizanne Connors’ right-hand woman.
“Miss Delaney.” Pat didn’t slow down, gesturing for Rose to follow. “She has thirty minutes. There’s another planner from a firm in San Francisco arriving at two o’clock. I’d suggest getting straight to the point. No fluff.”
The “other planner” comment hit Rose but she didn’t let her stride waver. She had expected competition. A star like Lizanne Connors didn’t just hire the first person who sent a portfolio.
“Understood,” Rose said.
“Has the team taken you through the NDA?”
“I’ve signed the standard one sent via email.”
“There’s an additional one. Different scope.” Pat stopped at a pair of massive glass doors and handed Rose a physical piece of paper and a pen. “Read it. Sign it.”
Rose skimmed the document. Her eyes caught the phrase Prime Esque and unscripted series.
Reality television. Lizanne Connors and her fiancée, the enigmatic music mogul Trina Holmes, were selling the first year of their marriage to a global network.
That explained the tight six-week timeline.
It wasn’t just a wedding; it was a production schedule.
Rose signed it, though her heart was hammering.
“She’ll be right with you,” Pat said, taking the paper and vanishing into the depths of the house.
Rose was left alone in a living room that felt more like a museum gallery.
A grand piano sat in the corner, sheet music for a Chopin nocturne scattered on the stand—a performance of “lived-in” charm that felt a little too perfect.
She walked to the bookshelves, her heels silent on the thick, cream-colored rug.
She studied the silver-framed photos. Lizanne was in all of them, radiating the kind of effortless gravity that made everyone else in the frame look like an extra.
There was one photo of Trina—dark, assured, and looking entirely disinterested in the camera’s gaze.
Six weeks. They wanted to plan the wedding of the decade in six weeks, while being filmed for a global audience, all while maintaining the “perfect” image of a Hollywood power couple.
It was a nightmare. It was a logistical suicide mission. And it was exactly the kind of miracle Rose needed to pay off her debt.
She heard footsteps on the stairs.
Then Lizanne Connors walked into the room.
Rose had seen her in a dozen movies and on the small screen, but the high-definition screen had flattened her.
In person, Lizanne was an event. She wore a simple white silk blouse and trousers, but she carried the air of someone who had never had to check a bank balance in her life.
Lizanne stopped. Her piercing blue eyes swept over Rose. They lingered for a fraction of a second on Rose’s worn blazer, then on her “battle” lipstick.
Without a word of greeting, Lizanne turned on her heel and walked right back out of the room. Rose stood frozen, her heart plummeting into her stomach.
Was that it? Did I just lose the job because of my blazer? The silence of the room felt like it was suffocating her. She had been there for less than five minutes, and one of the most famous women in the world had just taken one look at her and bolted.