Part 2:
Thornton wants this formalized before the weekend gala. I looked up from my desk, surrounded by returns that needed cataloging. weekend gala. The Harrington Foundation charity ball. You’ll be accompanying him publicly. William’s expression remained neutral, but something that might have been sympathy flickered in his eyes.
There’s a stylist appointment this afternoon. Car will pick you up at 4:00. My hand trembled slightly as I signed my name. Grace Mitchell agreeing to 6 months of beautiful fiction. The pen felt heavier than it should have. After William left, my best friend Kate appeared from the reference section, eyes wide.
Please tell me I didn’t just see what I think I saw. Depends on what you think you saw. A man who looks like he eats danger for breakfast, delivering documents to my best friend, who spent the last 6 years avoiding any human interaction more intense than recommending books. Kate perched on my desk, knocking over a stack of medieval poetry.
Grace, what did you do? I told her everything. the auction, the codeex, James Thornon’s impossible offer. With each word, Kate’s expression cycled through disbelief, horror, and something uncomfortably close to excitement. “You made a deal with the actual mafia,” she said slowly. “Allegedly mafia, technically, he’s a legitimate businessman who runs half the criminal enterprises in the city.” Kate grabbed my shoulders.
“Grace, this is insane. You’re the woman who apologizes to books when you shove them wrong. You’re going to pretend to date a man who She stopped, reassessing. Wait, is he attractive? The memory of his hand on my waist sent heat through me. That’s not relevant. So, yes, very yes. Kate studied my face.
Oh my god, you’re actually considering this seriously. I already signed the contract. I mean emotionally. You’re wondering if the fate could become real. Her voice softened. Honey, men like James Thornton don’t fall for women like us. They collect us temporarily, then move on. I know that. But my voice lacked conviction.
The stylist appointment transformed me. Claudia, a sharpeyed woman with silver hair and impeccable taste, circled me like a sculptor assessing marble. Mr. Dr. Thornton said you needed a complete wardrobe. She announced evening wear, casual elegance, professional grace. He wants you comfortable but confident. For 3 hours, I tried on clothes that cost more than my monthly salary.
Dresses in midnight blue and deep burgundy that actually fit my petite frame. Shoes that didn’t hurt. Jewelry subtle enough to wear without feeling like a costume. You have good bones, Claudia said, adjusting a silk blouse. And you carry yourself well when you’re not trying to disappear. Stop slouching. I straightened automatically, caught off guard by my reflection.
The woman looking back wasn’t invisible anymore. My phone buzzed. James, dinner tonight. Iljardino. 8:00 p.m. Will sends a car at 7:30. Wear the green dress. How did he know about the green dress? I glanced at Claudia, who smiled innocently. Mr. Thornton has excellent taste was all she said.
Iljardino occupied the top floor of the merchants tower with Florida ceiling windows overlooking the city. I’d read about it reservations booked 6 months out unless you owned the restaurant which I was learning James did. He stood when I arrived and something shifted in his expression as he took me in. The green dress was simpler than the others, but it moved like water, elegant without trying too hard.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “And it sounded like an observation rather than flattery.” “You look exactly the same as yesterday,” I replied, then bit my tongue. That wasn’t how fake fiancs talked, but he laughed. Genuine and brief. Sit. We should discuss expectations over wine. and I barely touched and food I was too nervous to taste. James outlined the next 6 months.
Public appearances twice weekly, private dinners when necessary, physical contact, handholding, his arm around my waist. Nothing more intimate unless the situation demanded it. Sullivan will be watching, he said, looking for cracks in the facade. He’ll send people to investigate you, test your story, maybe try to approach you directly.
What should I say if he does? Nothing. You walk away, you call me immediately, and you let William handle it. His gaze hardened. Patrick Sullivan is dangerous, Grace, more than you understand. He sees relationships as weaknesses to exploit. And you don’t? The question hung between us.
James sat down his wine glass carefully. I see them as liabilities that require management. There’s a difference. Is there? I leaned forward, surprising myself. Because from where I’m sitting, you just acquired a fake fiance to manage Sullivan’s attention. That sounds like exploiting a relationship, too. Except you agreed willingly for compensation.
He tilted his head, studying me. though I’m beginning to suspect the codeex isn’t your only motivation. My heart jumped. What else would I want? That’s what interests me. Most people in your position would be terrified right now. You’re challenging me instead. Something that might have been approval flickered across his face.
