Chapter 4 A Glimpse Beneath The Surface

The interview was scheduled for Friday afternoon. Until then, every morning was a dress rehearsal. Marian made sure I was up, dressed, camera-ready. Jace's assistant sent me mock questions. The PR team emailed "chemistry coaching" videos-clips of past power couples who oozed charm and connection. It was all carefully designed. Manufactured. Like we were building a love story from scratch.

The only problem was, love wasn't in the script.

It was Thursday evening when I saw him again. I had just come back from visiting my mother. She was better today-stronger, sitting upright in bed, her voice no longer trembling when she spoke. Her first question had been about Jace. She wanted to know if he was kind to me, if he treated me well. I had smiled and said yes. Because I couldn't tell her the truth. Not when she was still holding on.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor, heels clicking on polished marble. My phone buzzed with another PR reminder about the color palette I was expected to wear for the interview-cool tones, soft makeup, nothing too loud. I ignored it and turned toward the west wing.

His door was open.

Jace stood inside his closet, shirtless, holding a dress shirt in one hand and a cufflink in the other. For a second, I stopped. Not because of the way he looked-though he was undeniably striking-but because of the quiet look on his face. He wasn't composed or sarcastic or arrogant. He looked... tired. Almost human.

He caught my reflection in the mirror and turned his head slightly. "You lost?"

"No. Just passing."

He raised a brow. "You usually stay in your half of the house."

"I didn't know it was off-limits."

"It's not. But you avoid me like I breathe fire."

"Do you?"

"Only when provoked."

I smiled, despite myself.

He put on the shirt and began fastening the buttons. "You're dressed up."

"I had to go out. Mom's stable today. She asked about you."

He paused. "What did you say?"

"That you were kind."

He looked at me then. Really looked. Like he was trying to figure out if I meant it. And maybe part of me did.

"You didn't have to lie to her."

"She doesn't need the truth. Not right now."

He nodded once. "That's fair."

I lingered for a moment longer than I meant to.

"Are you doing anything tonight?" I asked.

His brows lifted, amused. "You asking me on a date, Elena?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I just figured if we're about to lie to the entire country, we should at least be able to have a civil conversation."

He didn't answer right away. Then, surprisingly-"Alright. Join me for dinner. But no cameras, no assistants, no scripts."

"Deal."

The dining room was too formal, so we sat on the back terrace overlooking the sea. A private chef delivered grilled salmon, vegetables, and a bottle of red wine. For once, it felt like two people having dinner-not a deal being carried out.

Jace poured the wine and passed me a glass. "So what did you do before all this?"

"Freelance editing, mostly. I used to work in publishing before the layoffs. Took a few ghostwriting jobs, then... well, my mother got sick."

"You like writing?"

"I love it," I said. "It's the only place I ever felt in control. You can rewrite endings in fiction."

He nodded slowly. "Must be nice."

"What about you? What did you want to be before your father molded you into the perfect heir?"

He scoffed. "I was never perfect. He just hates admitting that he needs me."

"You're good at what you do."

"I'm efficient. That's not the same thing."

We ate in silence for a few minutes, not uncomfortable, just... quiet. Like the wind between waves. Then Jace leaned back in his chair and studied me.

"Why do you hate him so much?" he asked. "My father."

I didn't speak at first.

Then I swallowed hard. "He crushed my dad's business. Bought out the board behind his back, stripped the company, sold it for parts. My father was never the same. He lost everything-his name, his confidence. He drank himself into silence and never recovered."

Jace didn't argue. He didn't make excuses. He just sat there, listening.

"I know you're not your father," I added. "But you're still part of that world."

"I didn't want to be," he said. "But every time I tried to get out, he found a way to pull me back."

"So you stay. Why?"

"Because if I don't, someone worse takes control."

He sounded so certain. Like he'd had to make peace with his place in this family long ago.

"Does it ever end?" I asked quietly.

"What?"

"The pretending."

He looked out over the ocean. "Sometimes I wonder if I've done it so long, I wouldn't know who I am without it."

After dinner, we didn't rush away.

We lingered. Talked. Jace told me he used to race cars in college until Edward shut it down. I told him I used to write poems as a girl and burn them because I didn't think they were good enough. We were two people who had no reason to connect. And yet, for the first time since this arrangement began, I felt something shift.

At one point, he reached across the table to pour me another glass, and his fingers brushed mine. I felt that touch for hours afterward.

Later, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, still in the dress from dinner, brushing out my hair. My cheeks were warm. My mind restless. I didn't know what to call what was happening. It wasn't love. Not yet. But it wasn't nothing anymore.

And that terrified me.

Because the more I felt, the more dangerous this marriage became.

The next morning, the PR team arrived for the final interview prep. Jace and I sat on the velvet couch in the drawing room while the team circled us like stylists preparing a fashion campaign. One woman touched up my makeup. Another coached us on eye contact and "natural affection." They told Jace to brush his hand over my arm when I laughed. They told me to look at him when I spoke his name, like I couldn't help it.

It was exhausting.

But when the rehearsal was done, and the team packed up to leave, Jace turned to me and asked, "Want to make them believe it?"

"What?"

He stepped closer, slowly. "All this. The great love story. We could sell it so well, they'd forget it was fake."

My heart kicked harder. "Is that what you want?"

He was close now. Closer than he'd ever been. His voice dropped. "I want to win. I want to prove that we can outplay every single person watching. Even him."

I swallowed. "And what happens when we fool ourselves, too?"

For a second, he said nothing. Then he smiled, slow and quiet. "Then we rewrite the script."

That night, I couldn't sleep. I stood again at the balcony, watching the sky bleed into black. My fingers curled around the cold railing. My mind raced.

Because the longer I stayed, the more I wondered what was real.

And if I'd already crossed a line I couldn't uncross.