I force air into my lungs, but it doesn't help. This is real. I signed that contract. Now I'm going to be made up like a doll and hanging off his arm for the next year.
"She's not relaxing," she says to someone else, and I hear a long sigh before cool hands touch mine.
"What can we do to help you relax, Miss Morgan? Another glass of champagne, maybe?" It's Margot’s voice, but I can't see her with the cucumber slices that cover my eyes. Before I have a chance to answer, she's already calling out for someone to bring me champagne.
The seat is moved upright, and the vegetables are lifted from my eyes as a glass of champagne is handed to me.
"Mr. Caine wants you to have a nice day." She tilts her head, eyeing me with a frown.
I'm worried that if I don't have a nice day, it might affect her employment. I don't know this woman, but the last thing I want is for her to lose her job, all because I'm not a fan of being poked and prodded and my anxiety is threatening to take me under.
Sucking in a breath, I nod. "Okay, I'll try."
"Good, good. Let’s continue."
After the facial is finished and my skin is glowing like it never has before, Margot leads me to another room, where a woman waxes every inch of my body. I’ve heard of Brazilians, but I’ve always just shaved down there, leaving a strip of hair. Apparently, that’s not acceptable, and instead, it’s all ripped from my body.
After that, Margot brings me to a cushioned chair with a tub at the base for a pedicure. While one woman scrubs my feet and paints my toes, another starts on my nails. I want to groan, but I do my best to place a smile on my face and drink the champagne while they work.
This should be every girl's dream, right? Being pampered by a team of people, all paid for by the hot billionaire? So why do I have rocks in my stomach then?
I polish off the glass and ask for a refill before leaning back in the chair and attempting to relax.
Hair and makeup are next, and by the time I’m whisked back up to the penthouse, a new woman is standing in the living room, flipping through a rack of clothes.
“Grace.” She’s wearing a black pantsuit with high heels and red-painted lips. She greets me with a calming smile and shakes my hand. “I’m Vivian, Mr. Caine’s personal stylist. I’ve preparedsome selections for you. I think they’ll meet your needs. But first, let’s get you ready for photos.”
An hour, and what feels like a full-body transformation later, I’m staring at a stranger in the mirror. My nails gleam with a sophisticated pale pink polish, my skin tingles from being waxed in places I didn't know needed attention, and my hair cascades in soft waves to my shoulders. The makeup artist has worked some kind of sorcery—my eyes look bigger, my cheekbones higher, my lips fuller. Vivian clothed me in a white dress that hits above my knees and clings to my body like a second skin, paired with nude heels that I struggle to walk in.
"Beautiful," Vivian declares, circling me like I'm her masterpiece. "Mr. Caine will be pleased."
Those words settle uncomfortably. Is that what matters now? Pleasing him?
Vivian leaves me with a whole new wardrobe, and Lisette comes in to say Wallace is ready downstairs, but I’m still staring at my reflection, wondering if I’ll recognize myself by the time this year is over.
9
ASHER
It’s been less than a day of living with my new fiancée, and I already can’t stop thinking about her. I’m not sure what I expected from her, but it wasn’t that she’d hide out in her room all night after moving in. I thought about knocking no less than a hundred times, but it didn’t seem right. So instead, I just let her be.
I did, however, book her a morning at the spa, giving her a taste of what it’s like being a Caine. And I wanted her to be glowing for these photos, that high-on-love look that will fool the public perfectly.
It's 35 degrees, and there's still snow covering the ground when I meet a shivering Grace surrounded by the photography team I hired. Typically, I would have a PR person with me to craft the perfect image, but that department reports up to my sister, and I have no plan to let it slip that this is all staged.
We're at Bow Bridge, a cliché spot to propose in Central Park, but clichés are that for a reason, and this proposal is going to screamloveso loud that no one will doubt it. Well, my family will. My sister will probably analyze our stories and these photos for any cracks in our relationship, and my mother willlikely be right there beside her. My father and brothers might be suspicious, but they won’t interrogate in the same way.
But if there’s one thing I've learned, growing up as a Caine, it's how to craft an image.
When I see Grace standing in front of the bridge, my first thought is:I need to give Vivian a raise.
Because the sight of Grace is the cherry on top of my plan.
She'sperfect.
For the first time since concocting this idea, I truly believe it’s going to work. The woman in front of me doesn't look like the one who showed up to my office in a frumpy sweater and baggy jeans. She's polished. Elegant. But she still has the modest innocence that Grace wears so well.
These pictures, as much as I dread being photographed, are going to be exactly what I need to present to my family. And the public is going to love seeing me with a docile Midwestern girl who grew up on a Christmas tree farm, a detail so sweet even I couldn't have planned it.
