Her brow furrows, and I can tell she’s holding back whatever comment is on the tip of her tongue. We’ll work on that. She’ll figure out soon enough that I don’t throw money at frivolous things. There are better ways to spend time and money than flexing my wealth with private cars.
When the car pulls up to the curb of the restaurant, I thank the driver and move to open Rosie’s door, but she’s already out, standing on the sidewalk and shivering as flurries swirl around her.
She tilts her head back, her soft blonde waves catching the flakes as they free fall and then lets out a puff of breath that hangs in the frigid air. For a second, she looks lost in the moment, her gaze fixed on the dark sky like she’s imagining herself somewhere else.
The sight of her standing there, cheeks pink from the cold, looking a little lost, a wedding ring on her finger that’s supposed to be from me. It all feels like a punch to my chest.
She’s beautiful. Easily the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And I’m in trouble because this whole arrangement is not supposed to result in any sort of attachment.
“You know,” I say, leaning forward to wrap an arm around her waist as I guide us toward the restaurant door. “If we’resupposed to act like a real married couple, you gotta let me open your car door for you.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Even my real husband wouldn’t need to do that for me. I can open my own door.”
Then, just as quickly, her eyes dart to the side and she flashes me a smile so practiced and polished it feels like a slap. It’s fake as hell. Not the one she gives me when she’s actually happy. And just like that I realize it’s game time.
Out of the shadows, the paparazzi and their cameras swarm us, their voices rising in a chaotic tangle of shouts and questions about our engagement and marriage. The shift is so fast it catches me off guard, the flashbulbs blinding as flashes fire off at rapid speed.
It’s been over two years since I was engaged to Anastasia, two years since I’ve been hunted this closely by the media. Two years since anyone cared about who I was dating.
And I realize, standing here now, I haven’t missed this circus at all. In fact, I’ve enjoyed my relative invisibility.
Keeping my personal life private means that I can move through the city with minimal interruption. No women at restaurants, no public dates, no stories on gossip sights about my dick size.
I let the tabloids label me the “perpetual celibate bachelor,” heartbroken and uninterested in love. I like it that way.
Because this is something else entirely. This is intrusive and invasive.
The lights are relentless, questions firing at us like a damn machine gun as I duck slightly and guide Rosie forward with a hand on her lower back. She doesn’t miss a beat, working the cameras like she was born for this.
Her bare fingers, notably glove-free despite the falling snow, flash just enough to show off her new ring—a piece of jewelry that’s so uncharacteristically gaudy it might as well be a neon sign screaming“Look I'm married!”
I force a smile at the people who are just trying to do their jobs and get the shot while inside I’m quickly dying.
We reach the door, and I yank it open, ushering her inside. Rosie steps in with a practiced shake of her coat, scattering snowflakes.
“Okay, that wasn’t so bad,” she says easily.
Wasn’t so bad? That was torture. Is that how every appearance is going to be for the next three months?
She approaches the hostess stand without waiting for me to respond.
“Reservation for Tremblay,” she says smoothly.
The hostess smiles. “Of course, right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Tremblay.”
For a brief moment, I notice something flicker across Rosie’s face. Fear, maybe, or hesitation at being addressed asMrs. Tremblay, but she recovers instantly, reaching out to squeeze my bicep in a move that looks perfectly natural, perfectly rehearsed.
“Let’s go, honey,” she says with a smile that could fool anyone.
Damn, she’s good. Too good. From the outside, you’d think this was real. That we were newlyweds celebrating my most recent win over dinner and cocktails. But I know better. Every move, every touch, is carefully scripted.
The hostess leads us through the crowded restaurant to a table in the back. It’s private enough to avoid interruptions but visible enough for anyone who needs to corroborate the story later.
This whole thing is a masterclass in PR execution. My stomach churns as I pull out Rosie’s chair for her.
She slides into the seat, thanks the hostess and then I take mine across from her. I pick up the menu, glancing at her over the top. Her eyes are fixed to the cover like I’m not even here.
“So… how did I do?”
