Chapter 3

Driving back to the city, the past five years played out in my mind like a movie I was forced to re-watch.

My mother, Erna, had worked as a seamstress for the Spencer family' s textile business before a machine malfunction left her with a permanent disability. We were the help. They were the elite. That was the line drawn between us from the day I was born.

In the private high school I attended on a scholarship, that line was a wall. I was the charity case, the girl with the secondhand uniform and the working-class accent. Kelly Holland, with her perfect clothes and cruel smile, made sure I never forgot it.

She and her friends cornered me in the locker room once, pushing me against the cold tiles. "Look at her," Kelly sneered, yanking my hair. "Do you really think you belong here?"

I was terrified, helpless.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the air. "Leave her alone."

It was Easton. He was a senior, a god in the halls of that school. He stood there, effortlessly powerful, and Kelly' s posse scattered like mice. He didn' t even look at me. He just dealt with the situation, reported Kelly for bullying, and moved on.

But I never forgot. A seed of a crush was planted that day, a foolish, hopeless admiration for the boy who had, for a moment, been my protector.

I watched him from afar for years. I saw how he doted on Kelly, how he chased her through every breakup and tantrum. He was desperately in love with her. I knew I never stood a chance, so I buried that crush and focused on my studies. I excelled, pouring all my energy into my passion: narrative design for video games.

Years later, fate threw us together again. I was working as a caterer at what was supposed to be Easton and Kelly' s wedding. The guests were all assembled, the orchestra was playing, but the bride was a no-show.

Kelly had sent a text. She' d run off with some European model. It wasn' t the first time she' d left him standing at the altar.

I saw Easton standing alone, his face a mask of fury and humiliation. In a fit of pure, vengeful spite, he turned, his eyes scanning the crowd, and they landed on me.

"You," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Marry me."

I was so shocked, I couldn't speak. He offered me a deal. A five-year contract marriage. He needed a wife to save face, to show Kelly she couldn' t break him. I, with my quiet intelligence and unthreatening background, was the perfect candidate.

And I, remembering the boy who saved me in the locker room, with that long-buried crush stirring in my heart, said yes.

For five years, he played the part of a perfect husband. We were polite, respectful strangers sharing a house. He made sure my mother received the best medical care, that she was comfortable. He never forgot my birthday or a holiday, always presenting me with a thoughtful, expensive gift. In public, if anyone dared to look down on me, he would shut them down with a cold, protective glare.

I allowed myself to hope. I thought maybe, just maybe, this performance had become real for him, too.

Then, six months ago, I overheard him talking to his friend in his study.

"I can' t believe Kelly' s coming back," his friend said.

Easton' s voice was weary. "I always knew she would."

"What about Brooke? Are you just going to toss her aside?"

I held my breath, my heart pounding against my ribs.

I heard Easton sigh. "Brooke was always temporary. She' s a cheap placeholder, a way to pass the time until Kelly was ready to come back to me. She knows her place."

The words shattered my carefully constructed fantasy. A cheap placeholder. The truth was colder and crueler than I could have ever imagined. My five years of hope, of quiet devotion, turned to ash in my mouth.