"So," she said, trying to steer the conversation back to safety. "What's this masterpiece of yours actually about?"
I wiped a stray drop of sauce from my lip and looked her dead in the eye. "It's a story about a liar," I said softly.
She stopped chewing. "Oh?"
"Yeah. A woman who wears a mask because she thinks the world only wants her for what's in her wallet. So she hides in the dirt, pretending to be someone she's not. But she forgets one thing."
"And what's that?" Sloane asked. Her voice was low, vibrating with a sudden, heavy intensity.
I leaned in, closing the distance between us until I could see the gold flecks in her dark irises. "That the dirt stains," I whispered. "And eventually, if you wear it long enough, the mask starts to rot."
The air between us practically crackled with static. She looked at me with a terrifying mix of fear and fascination. For a heartbeat, I thought she was going to confess. I thought she was going to tell me everything.
Then, she grinned. It was a reckless, dangerous look. "Sounds like a thriller," she said.
"It is," I agreed, leaning back and taking a sip of water. "And the best part? I haven't even written the ending yet."
Buzz. Buzz.
Her phone—the real one, the sleek black device she thought I hadn't seen—vibrated against the sofa cushion. Buzz. Buzz.
"You should probably get that," I said, nodding toward the couch. "Might be Grandma calling to check on your haircut."
She sighed, the weight of her real world crashing back down on her. She pulled out the smartphone and glanced at the screen. Her jaw tightened again. "I have to take this," she said, standing up. "Sorry. It's... the shop. The night shift is having trouble with a transmission."
"Go ahead," I waved a hand dismissively. "Work calls. I understand the grind."
She walked to the balcony, sliding the heavy glass door shut behind her. I watched her through the rain-slicked pane. The second she thought I couldn't hear her, her entire posture changed. She didn't look like a mechanic anymore. She looked like a Queen ordering an execution. She was pacing the length of the balcony, gesturing sharply toward the skyline, her face cold and commanding.
I took another bite of my spring roll, leaning back against the sofa. "Dance, puppet, dance," I whispered to the glass.
I didn't know why she was hiding, and I didn't care. For the first time in my life, I wasn't the victim of someone else's empire. I was the Director. And Sloane Cross was going to give me the performance of a lifetime.
Sloane slid the glass door to the balcony shut, locking out the storm. The sound of the latch clicking into place echoed louder than it should have in the small room. She walked back into the living room, her movements fluid and deliberate. The rain was still hammering against the glass, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that usually soothed me, but tonight, the air inside the apartment had shifted.
The tension wasn't just about the gala anymore. It wasn't just the awkwardness of two strangers married by impulse. It was sharper. Dangerous. Like the drop in pressure before a tornado touches down.
She sat down opposite me on the floor, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees. She didn't pick up her chopsticks. She didn't look at the expensive takeout containers scattered between us like landmines. She just looked at me. Her gray eyes were stripping me down, layer by layer.
"So," she said, her voice dropping the mechanic accent entirely. The rough, Brooklyn cadence was gone, replaced by a smooth, cultured baritone that sounded like it belonged in a boardroom, not a walk-up in Hell's Kitchen. "Why don't we just come up with our identities?"
I froze, my spring roll halfway to my mouth. Oh. That was new.
I slowly lowered the food, my mind racing. I raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," she said, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "We're dancing around it. The 'innocent girl' act. The 'poor mechanic' act. You want to rewrite the script or click the fast-forward button? Because I'm tired of the exposition."
Fast forward button.
My internal alarm bells rang, loud and shrill. That was dangerous. She was smarter than I gave her credit for. Much smarter. She had realized that my "surfing" comment earlier was a trap. She realized I wasn't just some naive girl she had rescued from the rain.
But then... amidst the alarm bells, I felt a flicker of amusement. A spark of genuine interest. Whatever, I thought. We are in this situation. She's a Queen; she wouldn't just marry a stranger without running a background check. And I would do the same. In fact, I already have.
"You want to drop the masks?" I asked, putting the spring roll down on the paper plate. I wiped my fingers on a napkin, taking my time. "That's a bold move, wife. Usually, people like to keep the mystery alive until the honeymoon is over."
"We are both smart people," she said, rotating her hand in a graceful gesture that encompassed the shabby room, the expensive food, and the heavy envelope of cash sitting on the counter. "We must have already figured it out. We are insulting each other's intelligence by pretending otherwise."
I leaned back against the sofa, crossing my arms over my chest. The "damsel" posture was gone. I let the sharp, calculating look I usually reserved for my editors surface.
"I felt amused," I admitted, a dry smile touching my lips. "That's quite something. Most people prefer the lie. But sure. Let me take you as my character then."
I gestured to her with my chin. "Spill it, then. Who are you, really? Because you handle a tuxedo like you were born in one, but you live in a place where the water pressure is a suggestion, not a rule."