The dress was wine-red, the color of a forbidden secret. The seamstress Alexander had sent to the hotel suite—yes, I was still in a hotel; my bags would have been taken to the penthouse without my presence—murmured words in French as she adjusted the fit at my hip. The fabric, a satin that seemed to melt under my fingers, flowed over my body like a second skin, leaving my shoulders bare and the neckline deep enough to make my heart beat faster.
"Mr. Vance has good taste," the seamstress commented, the pins between her lips. "He specified the color. Said it would match your… fire."
I almost laughed. Fire? All that remained in me were dead embers, ashes of debt and despair. But I kept quiet, watching in the full-length mirror how an imposter reflected herself. My hair, pulled back in a messy bun that had taken a silent hairstylist two hours. My eyes, lined and darker than usual. My lips, a full blush that made me look ready to be devoured.
At seven o'clock sharp, an unmarked black car awaited me at the private entrance. The driver, a middle-aged man with eyes that didn't smile, opened the door with a bow. Inside, the smell was the same as Alexander's office: new leather, impersonal cleanliness, and a subtle note of that woody perfume I now associated with him.
The restaurant was one of the city's highlights, literally. Located atop a tower, with glass walls that showcased New York like a carpet of sparkling diamonds. The reporters were already there, a bunch of well-dressed vultures with cameras and recorders. My stomach clenched.
Alexander waited near the bar, chatting with a gray-haired man. When he saw me enter, his expression changed. It wasn't an obvious transformation—the muscles in his face barely moved—but something in his eyes darkened, fixing on me with an intensity that made me stop in the middle of the room. He bid the man farewell with a nod and crossed the room toward me. Each step was calculated, confident, as if the space around him folded to accommodate him.
"Isabella," he said, taking my hand. Instead of a handshake, he brought it to his lips. His warm lips touched my skin, a brief but deliberate contact that sent a shiver down my spine. "You look stunning."
"Thank you," I replied, trying to catch my breath. "You also… look appropriate."
He almost smiled. Just a corner of his mouth lifted, as if appreciating my pathetic attempt at humor. Then, his arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close to his body. His warmth, even through the layers of fabric, was overwhelming.
"Remember," he whispered, his lips close to my ear, smiling at the flashes that were beginning to go off. "To them, you're crazy about me. Look at me like I'm the only thing that matters in this room."
I did what I could. I looked at him, into those gray eyes that now seemed to reflect the city lights, and tried to conjure a look of adoration. It must have worked, because a photographer shouted, "That's it! Just like that! Closer!"
Alexander gently turned me around, positioning me with my back to his chest, his arms around me from the front. His mouth found the curve of my neck, in a mock kiss that made my knees weak. The flashes exploded.
"Very good," he murmured against my skin, and I couldn't tell if it was a compliment to the performance or an appreciation of my trembling.
The dinner was a labyrinth of smiling questions and carefully choreographed answers.
"How did you two meet?" "At an art exhibition," Alexander replied, his fingers caressing my hand over the linen tablecloth. "I was looking at a painting. She was looking at me. It was… inevitable."
The women at the table sighed. I smiled, spearing a leaf of arugula with my fork.
"And the proposal? It must have been wonderful!"
Alexander looked at me, and for a moment, I saw something strange in his expression—a shadow, perhaps, or just the play of light. "It was at home. By candlelight. I knew I couldn't let her get away."
The lie was so sweet I almost swallowed it with the wine. I took a sip, feeling the smooth liquid go down my throat, but I couldn't wash away the bitter taste of the deception.
During dessert, his hand slid down to my knee under the table. His fingers traced slow circles on my bare skin, a touch that was simultaneously casual and deeply intimate. I froze, my fork suspended in mid-air. He continued talking to the man to his right, without missing a beat, as if he wasn't setting my body on fire with a simple touch.
When we finally got up to leave, our legs were trembling. In the private elevator that would take us to the parking lot, the silence fell like a heavy veil. The facade disappeared. Alexander stood with his back to me, watching the numbers gleam as we descended.
"You were adequate," he said, without turning around.
"Adequate?" I repeated, a spark of anger piercing the fog in my mind. "Is that all?"
He turned then, and the elevator space seemed to have shrunk. "What else would you like me to be?"
"I don't know. Maybe… human?"
He took a step in front of me. The air became heavy, electric. "Humans make mistakes, Isabella. Humans fall in love. Humans break contracts. You don't want me to be human."
His gaze traveled down my body, slow, possessive, as if he were memorizing every curve beneath the red dress. My heart pounded against my ribs.
"And you?" he asked, his voice low and rough. "Can you be… adequate… when there are no cameras around?"
The elevator stopped with a gentle jolt. The doors opened to the silent, dimly lit garage. He didn't move, blocking my exit, waiting for my answer.
I took a deep breath, the scent of him, of our game, of the danger, filling my lungs.
"I have no choice, do I?" I whispered.
This time, his smile was real, quick and fierce like the flash of a blade. "Exactly."
He stepped out of the elevator, extending his hand to me. And I, like the imposter I had agreed to be, placed my hand in his and followed him to the car that would take us to the penthouse. To our new home. To the first night of our contract.
In the back seat, he didn't touch me. He looked out the window, his sharp profile against the moving city. But his leg pressed against mine, from knee to hip, a firm, warm point of contact that reminded me, every second of the journey: you are mine now.
And the most disturbing part? Deep inside, in that secret and ashamed place, something was beginning to like this.
The car stopped under the awning of his building. The driver opened the door. Alexander went out first, then extended his hand to help me out. His hand was firm, his skin rough against mine. "Welcome to your new home, Isabella," he said, his voice echoing under the concrete. Looking at the luxurious entrance, a single question echoed in my mind: how many of my own rules would I break before dawn?