“Just doing my husbandly duties,” I reply, letting my hand fall from her waist as I reach for hers and intertwine our fingers.
Except, it’s not just about being her fake husband. I’d keep her safe from the likes of Marcus whether we were married or not, on camera or off. No woman should have to deal with that shit. Especially not her.
The rest of the evening flows with surprising ease. Jess conducts her interview with Edie Lang brilliantly, asking thoughtful questions that have the Oscar winner visibly impressed. I handle a minor scheduling crisis for Grant, ensure the key critics get their face time, and even manage to enjoy the film.
All night, Jess and I orbit each other with practiced awareness. A touch here, a smile there, knowing glancesacross the room that anyone watching would read as authentic connection.
The town car is silent on the drive home, with both of us conscious of the cameras still rolling. The tension that dissipated during the event builds again in the enclosed space.
“You were amazing tonight,” I say because it’s true and because it’s what a supportive husband would say.
“So were you.” Her smile is picture-perfect. “Especially with Marcus.”
“Just protecting what’s mine.”
“Now I’m yours?” The edge in her voice is subtle but unmistakable.
I raise an eyebrow. “Would you have preferred I let him paw at you all evening?”
“I can handle Marcus.”
“I know you can.” I keep my voice even, aware of the cameras. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
She doesn’t answer, but I feel her lean against my shoulder. She’s pretending to be affectionate for the cameras, but beneath the façade, she’s distant.
The moment we’re inside the apartment, with the door closed behind us and the cameras finally gone, Jess kicks off her heels with a fury that suggests she might like to aim them at my head.
“What the hell was that with Marcus?” she demands, unpinning her hair with sharp, angry movements.
“What was what?” I loosen my tie, trying to maintain my composure.
“That caveman routine. The territorial marking.” She gestures wildly. “The temple kiss!”
“I was playing the part,” I counter, though, even to my own ears, the excuse sounds hollow. “Marcus was crossing lines. Again.”
“I told you, I can handle Marcus.”
I step forward, and my voice is low and tight as I say, “You shouldn’t have to.”
She opens her mouth to argue again, but then she freezes.
I’m standing right in front of her now. Close. Closer than I should be.
And we both feel it. The space between us is practically electric. The only thing louder than our argument is the pounding of my heart in my ears. Her eyes flick down, just once, to my mouth. My fists clench at my sides to stop myself from reaching for her.
“I would’ve stepped in for any woman being harassed like that,” I say, my voice rough. “But for you?” I shake my head. “There’s no version of me that stands there and lets that happen.”
Her breath hitches, and her eyes lock on mine. For a second, I swear we’re both about to cross a line we can’t uncross.
“This isn’t real, Lucas,” she says finally, her voice quieter. “You don’t actually have to protect me.”
“I know that,” I snap, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “But nobody else does. And if were going to convince others, including my father, who can smell bullshit from miles away, that this marriage is legitimate, it needs to look and feel real.”
Jess sinks onto the couch, suddenly looking exhausted. “You think we can’t pull itoff?”
“I think tonight proved we can be good at this,” I admit, and the truth surprises even me.
She looks up at me, and for once, there’s no mask, no performance, just Jess looking as confused as I feel.
