Part 3:
The librarian who apologizes to books has claws after all. How did you I stopped. You’ve been investigating me. Of course. Due diligence. He pulled out a slim folder, slid it across the table. Grace Elizabeth Mitchell, 24, graduated top of your class in medieval literature from Harrington University, specialization in manuscript preservation and provenence authentication.
You volunteer teaching literacy at the community center. You’ve never been in legal trouble, and you have an idetic memory for written text. I stared at the folder, my privacy laid bare in bullet points. You also, he continued, voice softening slightly. Spent the last 6 years deliberately making yourself invisible. Small apartment, few friends, minimal social media presence.
You’re hiding from something. That’s none of your business. It is if it becomes Sullivan’s business. He’ll dig deeper than I did. James closed the folder. I need to know what he’ll find. The old instinct was to deflect, to smile and change the subject. But something about his directness demanded honesty.
I was engaged once, I heard myself say 3 years ago, to someone who seemed perfect until I realized he was systematically isolating me from everyone I knew. Controlling what I wore, who I talked to, where I went. I met James’s eyes. I left, but he didn’t take it well. Restraining order, police reports, the whole mess. By the time it ended, I’d lost most of my friends and my confidence, so I chose invisible.
Safer that way. James’ expression went very still. His name, it doesn’t matter. He moved to California 2 years ago. His name, Grace. Something in his tone made my spine straighten. Why? Because if he becomes a problem during our arrangement, I handle problems. He said it casually, like offering to fix a leaking faucet.
You don’t need to. I do. You’re mine for the next 6 months, even if it’s pretend. That means you’re under my protection. Anyone who threatened you before should understand that dynamic has changed. He pulled out his phone. His name. I gave it to him, feeling strange about the protectiveness in his voice. This was just business, just a transaction.
Except it didn’t feel transactional when he immediately texted someone with instructions to verify the ex’s current location and activities. There, he said, pocketing his phone handled. You can’t just I can. I did. Next topic. But his hand reached across the table, fingers brushing mine. You’re safe now, Grace. That’s not negotiable.
The touch lasted 3 seconds, barely contact at all. It rewired something fundamental in my chest. We left the restaurant with his hand at my waist again. That possessive placement that was becoming familiar. A photographer caught us on the sidewalk. James must have tipped them off, and I forced myself not to flinch at the flash.
“Smile,” he murmured against my ear. “You’re madly in love with me, remember? I’m a terrible actress. Then think about the codeex. Think about what you’re getting. His thumb traced a small circle through the fabric of my dress. Think about how Sullivan’s going to see this photo tomorrow and realize you’re completely off limits.
I did smile then genuinely because the idea of being off limits felt like power I’d never held before. The photo appeared in the society pages the next morning. Thornton’s mystery woman identified. Librarian Grace Mitchell captured hearts and dangerous attention. Kate called at 7 a.m. You’re viral. Half the city is trying to figure out who you are. I’m nobody. You’re somebody now.
James Thornon somebody. She paused. How does that feel? I looked at the photo again. In it, James gazed down at me with something that looked unsettlingly real while I smiled up at him like I’d forgotten the cameras existed. Terrifying, I admitted, and exhilarating. Is that normal for falling in love? Yes.
For a fake relationship with a crime lord? Honey, there’s nothing normal about any of this. But I wasn’t falling in love. I told myself firmly. This was just good acting, just convincing performance. The knock at my apartment door interrupted that rationalization. William stood in the hallway holding a large box. from Mr.
Thornton,” he said, “for the charity gala tomorrow night.” Inside was the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen. Deep burgundy silk that would move like liquid and a note in strong, precise handwriting. “Wear this. Dance with me. Convince everyone, including yourself, that you chose me.” I ran my fingers over the silk, my reflection in the mirror showing a woman I barely recognized. confident, visible, claimed.
Kate was wrong about one thing. I wasn’t falling in love. I was already halfway gone, and we’d barely started the performance. The Harrington Foundation charity ball transformed the Grand Hotel’s ballroom into something from a fairy tale. If fairy tales included criminals in tuxedos and stolen art on the auction block, I descended the main staircase in the burgundy dress, acutely aware of every eye tracking my movement.
James waited at the bottom, devastating in a black tuxedo that fit him like it had been painted on. When his gaze met mine, something heated flickered through those storm gay eyes. “Breathtaking,” he murmured, offering his arm, his fingers closed over mine, warm and steady. “Ready to perform? Do I have a choice?” “Always, but you’re here anyway.
