_Alexandra Vega POV
Le Cirque smells like money.
Old money. My mother's money. Truffles, leather booths, and lies served on silver plates.
The private room was exactly as she described. Candles. White tablecloths. A violinist from Milan in the corner who cost more than Shaw's annual salary.
Theater.
Katrina walked in three steps behind me. Black dress. No jewelry. Hair down.
She'd obeyed the dress rule. Disobeyed my mother.
Good.
The host bowed. "Mr. Vega. Mrs. Vega. Your table."
_Mrs. Vega._
She flinched. I didn't.
The photographer was at the bar. _The Post._ Mother's contact. He lifted his camera when we sat. Didn't hide it.
That was the point.
"Wine?" I asked her. Not because I cared. Because married people ask.
"No."
I ordered anyway. Red. She wouldn't drink it. I wouldn't either. But the bottle on the table photographed well.
Katrina's hands were in her lap. Knuckles white. She was looking at the exit. At the violinist. At the silverware. Anywhere but me.
Rule broken already.
"Look at me," I said. Low.
She did. Eyes wide. Panic there.
"Not like that," I said. "Like it's 8:03 AM and you just told me Mexico City was balanced. Like you earned something."
Her jaw locked. "This is different."
"It's not. It's a performance. You're good at those. You performed 'dutiful daughter' for 28 years. Perform 'wife' for thirty seconds."
The camera flashed.
She blinked. Too fast. Looked like she'd been slapped.
Useless.
Mother would see that photo and call me before dessert. _"Alex, she looks terrified. Try harder."_
I don't try. I execute.
I reached across the table. Not fast. Not slow. Deliberate. Took her hand.
Ice. Her hand was ice.
Clause 5.1: _No physical intimacy outside photographic necessity._
This was necessity.
She didn't pull away. But she didn't relax either. Her fingers stayed straight. Dead.
"Better," I lied.
The photographer moved. New angle.
My mother wanted _burn_. She wanted tabloids tomorrow: _"Ice King Melts! Vega Caught Cradling New Bride's Hand At Le Cirque!"_
I wanted stock to stop dropping 0.3% every time someone wrote _"sham marriage"_.
We wanted different things. But the photo would be the same.
"Tell me about Line 37," I said.
"What?"
"The FX variance. Q4 2020. Walk me through it again."
Her brows pulled together. "Right now?"
"Yes. Talk."
The camera flashed again.
"I... I pulled central bank rates," she said, confused. "Not corporate estimates. The corporate ones were projected. I used actuals. The variance was 11%."
"Why?"
"Because projected isn't real. Real is what happened. You can't balance on hope."
Her voice got stronger on _real_. Her hand warmed. One degree.
There.
"Good," I said.
She looked at me then. Really looked. Not panic. Not hate. That thing from Wednesday at 8:11 AM. _You chose to._
The photographer must have gotten it. Because he lowered his camera and nodded to the bartender. Message sent. _He got the shot._
I let go of her hand.
She exhaled. Didn't realize she'd been holding it.
"Thirty seconds over," I said.
She looked at the clock. "It was two minutes."
"Thirty seconds of pretending. The rest was numbers. Numbers are safe for you."
The waiter came. Appetizers. Neither of us touched them.
"My mother will send this to Richard," I said. "He'll show it to his board. Proof his daughter is 'taken care of'. Proof the merger is stable."
Katrina went still. "He sold me for a merger."
"He sold you for 18 months of my name. Then he gets you back. Depreciated asset. But with Vega on your resume."
She said nothing. _Save it to the blood._
"Does it bother you?" I asked.
"What?"
"That I know. That I say it out loud."
She picked up the wine glass. Didn't drink. Just held it. Looked at the red through the candlelight.
"No," she said finally. "It bothers me that everyone else pretends they don't."
The violinist started playing. Something Italian. Something expensive.
My phone buzzed.
*Mother:* Front page of Post tomorrow. Good boy. She's pretty when she's not scowling. Bring her to Sunday brunch.
I didn't reply.
I looked at Katrina. She was looking at the violinist now. Not scared. Not sad. Just... tired.
"You did well," I said.
She didn't say thank you. She'd learned.
"Car's outside when you're ready," I said. "Separate cars. Per Clause 7.1."
She nodded.
I stood. She stood.
The photographer got one more as we left. Me holding the door. Her walking through first.
It would read: _Gentleman_.
It was actually: _Clause 7.1. Separate living quarters to be maintained. Separate exits preferred._
In the valet, I turned to her. "Sofia said you're on Q2 consolidation now."
"Yes."
"Don't let her work you to death. I need Accounting functional."
"I won't."
She got in her car. Black sedan. Not mine.
I got in mine.
Two cars. Two wings. One photo.
Mother got her burn.
I got 0.3% back.
Katrina got... I don't know what she got.
But her hand wasn't ice when I let .