Chapter Nine

Pretending in Love

The Harrington Charity Gala was one of three annual events where the Lancaster name was required. Clara briefed me: black tie, nine hundred guests, minimum forty minutes of visible marital harmony.

Lucas and I arrived together, which I'd expected.

What I hadn't expected was how natural it would feel.

He guided me through the entrance with one hand at the small of my back — and I knew it was performance, I understood the function of it, I had signed a contract that described this exact gesture — but his hand was warm through the silk of my dress, and the pressure was just confident enough to feel like intention.

We were good at this. Scarily good.

He laughed at two things I said. Both times, the laugh was quiet, private, directed at me like I'd said something that had caught him off guard. The first time I thought he was performing it. The second time, I wasn't sure.

He remembered which wine I preferred and had it waiting when I returned from a conversation with the gala chair. He fielded a pointed question about our timeline with the kind of easy deflection that only works when you're genuinely relaxed, not rehearsed.

And in the third hour, when a photographer asked us to stand together for the society page, his arm came around my waist and he leaned his head just slightly toward mine — a small, private incline that looked, in the photograph, exactly like a husband who was aware of no one else in the room.

I was aware of his warmth for the rest of the evening.

The car home was quiet. The city moved past the windows.

"You're better at this than I expected," he said.

I looked at him. "At pretending?"

A pause. "At being present."

It was such a specific thing to say that I didn't have an immediate answer.

"So are you," I said finally.

He looked out the window. The city light moved over his face.

We reached the building. The car stopped. He got out first and offered me his hand — habit, or performance, or something that was beginning to blur the line between the two.

I took it.

At the penthouse door he kept hold of my hand for a moment. Not long. The lobby cameras were behind us. No reason for it except—

He let go when the door opened.

Inside, the apartment was quiet and dark except for the city below.

I stood in the entryway and counted back.

Three seconds. His hand in mine, inside a building, with no audience.

I went to my room.

I did not think about it.

I thought about it for an hour before I fell asleep.

Chapter Ten

Mine

The Ashford lunch was a quarterly meeting between Lancaster Group and one of its oldest development partners. Lucas had mentioned it in passing — I hadn't been invited, hadn't been expected, had no reason to be there.

But my studio was in the same building. I'd come up to borrow a conference room, per my arrangement with Clara. I walked in as the dessert course was being served.

Lucas saw me from across the room.

I started to turn — I'd come back later — when I heard it.

Gerald Ashford, senior partner, gesturing toward me with the casual authority of a man who'd never been corrected in company: "Ah, and is that the wife? Nice hobby she has, the little studio. I suppose it keeps her busy while you run the actual business."

Three people laughed.

I went still.

Lucas did not laugh.

What Lucas did was go very quiet in a particular way — a quality of silence I'd begun to recognize over the past months. The kind that preceded something irrevocable.

"Lancaster Group is acquiring a forty percent stake in Bennett Studio," he said, "effective next week."

No one had a response to that. Including me.

"The valuation reflects market rate for an emerging luxury brand with a thirty percent year-over-year growth trajectory." He set down his fork. "Bennett Studio is not a hobby. It's an asset." He looked at Ashford with the kind of steadiness that required no volume. "And if I hear my wife's work described that way again, this partnership ends today."

The room was very still.

Ashford cleared his throat. Reached for his water.

"Of course," he said. "My apologies."

The meeting concluded twenty minutes later. I waited in the hallway. When Lucas came out, alone, I fell into step beside him.

"You didn't ask me," I said.

"You would have said no."

"That's not your decision."

He stopped walking. Turned to face me. For once, something in his expression was uncertain — or as close to uncertain as I had ever seen him.

"You're right," he said. "Read the offer before you decide. If you want to decline, I'll withdraw it."

That was not what I'd expected him to say.

I read the offer that night. Alone at the dining table, surrounded by my own sketches, a glass of wine going warm beside me.

The valuation was fair. Beyond fair.

By midnight, the clip of Lucas's statement had already been lifted from someone's phone recording and cut to thirty seconds. By two AM it had three million views.

The headline read: Lucas Lancaster is obsessed with his wife.

I read it three times.

Then I looked across the apartment at the light still burning under his study door.

I felt something shift — tectonic, deep, the kind of movement you can't unfeel once it's happened.

I closed my laptop.

I was in trouble.

Chapter Eleven

Jealous

Ethan began his campaign the following week.

Flowers on Monday — two dozen white peonies, my favorite, which he'd remembered. I told reception not to accept them. They were there when I arrived Tuesday.

A car waiting outside the studio on Wednesday. I took the subway.

Thursday, a table at Lutèce — our restaurant, the first place we'd had a real date — reserved under my name. I cancelled it by phone and didn't go.

Friday, he appeared in the audience at a fashion preview I was presenting. When the lights came up, he stood.

"Sophia Bennett is the most talented designer I've ever known," he said, in a room of two hundred people. "And I let her go because I was an idiot." He looked directly at me. "I'll wait as long as it takes."

The room went very quiet.

Someone filmed it. By that evening it had been cut together with the Lucas clip — obsessed husband versus repentant ex — and the internet had chosen sides with great enthusiasm.

I came home to a dark apartment.

Lucas was in the kitchen. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. A glass in his hand. He didn't turn when I walked in.

"You should call him back," he said.

I stopped in the doorway.

"Excuse me?"

"Carter." He still didn't turn. "If that's what you want."

I crossed the kitchen slowly and stood where I could see his face. He was looking at the glass. His jaw was set.

"Is that what you want?" I asked.

A long silence.

He didn't answer.

"Lucas."

"Go to bed, Sophia."

"You brought it up."

"I shouldn't have."

The silence between us filled with everything neither of us was saying. The kitchen felt very small. He was close enough that I could see the slight tension in his hands around the glass.

"He's not what I want," I said. Quiet. Certain.

He finally looked at me.

For one unguarded second, something moved across his face that I had never seen there before. Something that looked almost like relief — and was quickly, deliberately, replaced by composure.

"Good night," he said.

I went to bed.

I lay awake for an hour and listened to him not sleeping in the kitchen.

I counted nothing. There was nothing to count.

I just listened to the sound of Lucas Lancaster being awake at midnight for the first time in his very controlled life.