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“Why are you going along with this?” he demands of Clara.

“I have my reasons,” she says softly, placing her hands demurely in her lap. “But the bottom line? We’re going to need that prenup.”

Chapter 14

Clara

If the devil had a diary, it would surely be filled with my Tuesday. He’d probably use highlighters, sparkly gel pens, and stickers as a treat to himself for hitting payday.

I tighten the belt on my coat, glad once more that I hadn’t managed to sell it. Not that I hadn’t tried. And not that I hadn’t cried a couple of times when I so desperately needed the money. While I’m not quite at the point of feeling that everything happens for a reason, I am glad to be able to bring a little class to the day.

The day being my wedding day.

I get to the building first, the Office of the City Clerk, and for probably the first time in my life, I stare up at the imposing facade. I’ve probably passed by the building a million times, but it never would’ve entered my head that I’d get married there one day.

Whenever the thought of marriage crossed my mind in that past, in that nebulous, distant, some-time-far-away way, I assumed I’d be dressed in white, complete with train and cathedral veil. Maybe I’d be on the shores of Lake Como. Or in a vineyard in Tuscany. Or maybe at a Disney-esque château on the outskirts of Paris. And obviously, I’d be wearing Valentino. Or maybe a bespoke Vera Wang masterpiece.

Huh. Maybe I gave marriage more thought than I realize.

But I never imagined I’d marry for anything other than love. Yet here I stand, outside of a municipal building, ready to plight my troth. Get spliced. Hitched. Tie the knot to a man I no longer know. Does it count that I loved him once?

“Clara.”

At the sound of my name, I come back to myself with a jolt. My bottom lip stings, probably because I was chewing on it again. “Hi. Hello. How are you?” I say all at once, then clamp my mouth shut. I run my tongue over my teeth; red on white isn’t a good look. Unless we’re talking strawberry and cream. Or candy canes.

“I’m good. You?” he answers, mildly amused.

“Mm-hmm.” I nod and glance down, embarrassed. But then notice his shiny shoes. “Corthay?” Shoes at $3,000 a pair.

“How’d you tell?”

I’m grateful he glances down at the same time as my gaze rises, because holy suit porn, Batman. Troy is dressed in another three-piece suit—when you look that good, why stop at two? The midnight blue, the wool-silk blend is tailored to his body like it was cut by a lover’s hand. His shirt is snowy, and his natty sky blue silk tie matches his pocket square.

Blue seems to be the color of the day because, under this coat, I’m wearing a blue Mikado silk dress. Another garment I tried in vain to sell. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole unintentional matchy-matchy.

“Don’t you look dapper.” I sound like an old maid as I curl my fingers into my palms. Strategic touching might be fine, but as there’s no one here to witness this, I’m not supposed to feel him up.

“Thanks. These are for you.” He thrusts a small bouquet my way. Pale-colored peonies with sprigs of eucalyptus.

“Oh, how lovely.” Don’t cry, you idiot, I tell myself as I stroke a silken petal. But it’s such a surprise. A kindness I did not expect.

“You got the ring, so I thought I’d get flowers.”

“They’re beautiful,” I whisper, ignoring the fact that my wedding ring is a cheap piece of costume jewelry. Score one for Troy.

“I thought, for the photo. You know.” His words come out jerky as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck.

I stick my nose in the blooms as my ridiculous heart sinks. The photo. The much-needed proof of today. The optics. The narrative. Ah, well. At least the flowers aren’t pretend.

“Let me get you the ring.” I hoist the bag higher from where it’s pinching the crook of my arm. My overnight bag of consequences but not action, because this will be a sexless marriage. Even if he does look good enough to climb. “Hold these?” I offer him the bouquet, unable to open the zipper and hold the flowers.

But he reaches for the bag instead. “You should’ve let me send a car.”

“The A is quicker,” I say, swinging it out of his way. This is a business deal. A marriage of practicalities. There’s no need for chivalry, no place for a reemergence of feelings, and there will be no reminiscing. Ever!

“We could’ve picked up your things later.”

My things. The reference makes me feel kind of swimmy in the stomach. It’s not quite anxiety and not quite giddiness. Apparently, I’m supposed to prepare to be unimpressed by his fancy Tribeca apartment as it’s currently under renovation. Maybe he’s forgotten where I was living. Maybe I’ll forget soon too.