by R. K. Lilley
I set the binder down on the nearest surface, slipped off my robe, and pulled the skimpy top over my head.
When it was fastened I moved on to don nude thong panties, then skintight, stretchy burgundy leggings.
Even my shoes and socks matched. I thought about complaining when I saw that the maroon running shoes that’d been picked out for me had a hidden wedge in them, (because who worked out in heels?) but I decided it wasn’t worth it. If I was going to throw a fit about something, it wasn’t going to be shoes.
A trip to the gym took minimum prep, even for me, but I still took care with my appearance, treating it like another type of photo shoot. Just another part of the job.
I arranged my thick, streaky blonde hair into a practiced messy topknot, then moved onto makeup. I applied it lightly, going for natural with a rosy glow.
I had just finished applying nude lip-gloss when I heard my name being called.
“Yes?” I called back.
“Ready, Duchess?” Chester asked, voice pitched to be heard across the apartment.
“Always,” I replied, grabbing my workout bag and heading for the door.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Just a few days after the wedding I’d seen the wedding photos.
I found them in magazines. Several spreads had been set up in advance across varying publications.
No one had bothered to show them to me. I had to troll the internet for them just like everyone else.
They were breathtaking. The photographer was talented, the setting was sublime, and we were very convincing—the gorgeous billionaire madly in love with his fresh, barely legal model bride.
Snapshots of what must have been a perfect day; it had all been immortalized for the world to see.
Us kissing at the altar. That brief, obligatory pressing of lips looked like so much more. Our romantic stroll out of the church and through the gardens, the sun on our smiling faces. His mother kissing my cheek with affection. His father putting his arm around me, welcoming me to the family.
Me huddled with four bridesmaids I only knew on paper.
Him laughing with his groomsmen like it was the happiest day of his life.
Another kiss set amongst white flowers, another brief, perfunctory contact frozen into a hopelessly romantic moment in time.
So many flawless snapshots of a spectacularly gorgeous lie. And God were they convincing.
I spent hours looking at them all. Days probably.
The photographer even captured the moment when Calder had me try my first taste of champagne and bourbon, my new husband smiling at me fondly. Oh how charming it all looked.
The shots of our first dance did indeed end up in the paper. I looked flushed and nervous and like I couldn’t take my adoring eyes off him. He looked like he wanted to devour me whole.
The photographer had even caught our ‘private’ kiss in the garden under the stars. I stared at that picture the longest.
That kiss had stayed with me. I’d thought about it way more than I wanted to. Just thinking of it made my lips tingle. I’d forgotten it was even a photo op.
What a fool.
Well, it’d worked out. Looking at that passionate embrace, even I felt myself starting to wonder if we felt something for each other. Or at the very least question what I felt for him.
I shook off the foolish thought. That just went to show the power of sexual chemistry and fantastic photography.
“We’re here, Duchess,” Chester called from the front seat of the Benz. He switched between riding shotgun and keeping me company in the backseat, depending on whether or not we expected to be photographed when we exited the vehicle. When we were being photographed, he rode up front because he thought it appeared more professional and intimidating to anyone who might so much as think about messing with me.
He’d very considerately explained all of that to me the very first time we’d met. He tended to do that; to explain all of the reasons for his methods. It was one of his most stellar qualities, and he had quite a few.
The car stopped, and Chester got out. He opened my door for me and handed me out of the car, took my gym bag, then put himself between me and the half dozen photographers that were waiting to pounce.
I wasn’t remotely annoyed with the paparazzi (of course I wasn’t—they’d been called there by someone on my team), but I didn’t answer any of the questions they flung at me on my short walk from the car to the glass doors of my gym.
My personal trainer, Reggie, was there waiting, letting me in before Chester or I could reach for the handle. We greeted each other briefly and got to work.
He set me up on a treadmill facing the front windows. On display. The entire front room had been cleared out just for me. I was getting used to it. Again, I treated it all like a modeling gig. It made my life feel more productive that way, as opposed to feeling like I was constantly being hounded and overexposed.
It was all about attitude, I told myself.
I walked and jogged for forty-five minutes. It was one of the most pleasant parts of my day. Chatting with Chester and even Reggie had a lot to do with that. Endorphins helped, as well.
I could forget for a moment that I’d made some drastic life choices. I could forget that I’d traded my freedom for financial security. I could forget that I hadn’t spoken to my stranger husband in nearly a month.
My wedge tennis shoes were surprisingly functional for a workout. Not comfortable, perish the thought, but not excruciating either.
“Asha told me you were retaining water, but I don’t see it,” Reggie was telling me. “Regardless, I sent some recipes along to your chef that should help. They don’t taste great, but it’s always worth it to stop the bloat, right?”
I tried not to grind my teeth. This was how Asha got her digs in. Of course I wasn’t retaining water, and my diet was already down to eleven hundred calories a day. Now it would also be unsalted and bland for two weeks, at least.
I didn’t correct him, though. And I wouldn’t react to the shitty, flavorless food. Reactions were what Asha wanted, and I’d become very adept at depriving her of the more satisfying ones.
Reggie had clearly gotten the message about me doing dirty dogs in front of the windows loud and clear. After my cardio he made a point of taking me to a different room when I did all of the ground work strength training that might be taken in a suggestive way.
I finished my workout with laps in the gym’s large lap pool. I still couldn’t get used to the fact that they emptied the large room out just for my use, but I did appreciate it. There was something so serene about having that large, echoing room all to myself. It was the most peaceful part of my day. I always drew it out as long as I could.
I showered again, then headed back to the apartment, where I surrendered myself to my beauty team.
I was well turned out in a lightweight Helmut Lang white shirtdress that showed off most of my legs. Some creative cutouts at the arms gave a modern twist to the cold shoulder trend. A tan Burberry belt added structure to the silhouette of the dress, and nude Stuart Weitzman stilettos kept the overall look understated and classic.
I buttoned the shirt down low enough to show a fair amount of cleavage, and left my collar bare of jewelry. In fact the only jewelry I wore were a pair of thin gold hoop earrings, and my wedding ring.
Bernice, my makeup artist, gave me a fresh faced fine tuning.
Gretchen, my hair stylist, smoothed my thick golden hair into loose, tousled waves.
When my luncheon prep was finished, I headed out the door again, Chester in tow, or vice versa.
Lunch was pleasant enough, if a tad boring. My mother-in-law was actually a pleasure to deal with. She was a friendly, somewhat familiar face in a crowd of strangers. I was always relieved when I found out she’d be at an event.
She was a lovely woman, a former model and actress who kept herself in fighting shape to this day. Her thick dark hair was pulled back into a complicated chignon that might
have aged another woman, but only brought out her impeccable bone structure and pale gray eyes. God, what a beautiful family.
She wore a fitted cream dress that made it look like we’d coordinated our wardrobes.
For all I knew, we had.
We embraced, kissed cheeks, and sat down to pretend to eat for three hours. What we did while we pretended to eat was plan out a star-studded auction benefitting the Castelo Foundation, a charity my mother-in-law herself had started twenty-five years prior. It was a multi-functional charity, but it focused largely on funding cancer research.
“I’d love to see a runway show attached to this,” she told the board. “Now that we have two supermodels in the family, why not use that? Having us walk a runway together for our family charity would surely get the event more press. Are you game, Noura?”
“Of course,” I responded instantly.
I actually valued this part of my fake new life. While I doubted my presence did anything to add to the already well-established charity, it at least felt like I was contributing something. It felt purposeful, and I needed purpose.
From the luncheon I went directly to a photo shoot. I modeled thigh high tan suede boots and a cream cashmere sweater for several hours, went home, prepped for a gala, and was off again.
Rinse, repeat.
Busy, busy, busy. Just how I liked it.
I ran into my husband’s parents at the gala. We were photographed together, and I wondered when the headlines would start focusing on the fact that Calder Castelo’s fresh new wife was never, ever with her husband.
“You look lovely, as always,” my father-in-law told me after our photo op was finished.
He always looked so severe that even when he was being complimentary it came off coldly. Still, I thought I sensed a change in him. I wasn’t sure if it was wishful thinking, but I thought he was warming to me a little more with each meeting.
“You flatter me,” I told him shyly.
“Not at all,” he remarked back, his deep complexion turning a tad darker as he flushed. “It’s me that’s flattered to be escorting the two loveliest ladies at the ball.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think my father-in-law was starting to like me. It didn’t necessarily run in the family.
CHAPTER
SIX
I was backstage at a runway show. It was the following afternoon. I was mid-prep, scrolling through the blasted fake wedding pictures yet again—I’d saved them on my phone—when my cell screen flashed a message at me.
Asha: Your husband is taking you out to dinner right after your show. Change quickly. Don’t keep him waiting.
I just stared at the words for a beat, trying to work through my shock.
I hadn’t even known he was in New York. Last I’d seen (from tabloids) he was working hard and probably playing harder in London.
And.
Could he not have messaged me himself? Did he even have my cell number?
I texted Asha back.
Me: Got it. Is he attending the show?
Asha: How should I know? Just be ready.
I modeled two looks—both white, which seemed to be a theme in my jobs since the wedding. I suspected my husband or his family was behind that. A reminder to the world that I was his shiny new bride.
I walked the catwalk, but didn’t have the nerve to search the crowd for him. I knew it would throw me off, and what did it matter? If he was there, it was only for appearances.
After the show I left my hair and makeup as is (why waste it?) and slipped into a paper thin, cream, silk frock with a short hem and a plunging neckline that accentuated my cleavage and left little to the imagination.
I assumed by my outfit that my stylist had known about my dinner plans before I’d been informed.
It was a distracting dress for a distracting evening. I wondered if it would do its job.
I was just stepping into a pair of soft pink, feathered Jimmy Choo mules when I felt a shift to the air in the room.
I knew what had done it, I’d felt that energy before, but instead of looking for Calder, I stole a glance at the other models, all in various stages of changing.
It was comical how they all just froze, as though they’d scented fresh blood in the water.
I wondered how many of them my husband had fucked. He had a reputation for one night stands with leggy models.
Finally, I looked. It didn’t take me long to find him. His large, masculine presence dominated the room.
Our gazes clashed. My heart stuttered in my chest, and he smiled like he was happy to see me.
It was a disarming sight, to say the least.
I heard the quick shutter of multiple professional cameras going off.
Ah, there it was. There was no reason to set a stage without an audience.
I smiled back.
He started toward me, and I wondered if I was supposed to meet him halfway. I was too disarmed and he moved too quickly, so the decision was taken out of my hands.
It was all I could do to devour as many details of him as I could before he was on me.
I hadn’t seen anything but pictures of him since the wedding. I’d almost forgotten he was even better looking in person. More gorgeous than my biased memories had allowed me to hold onto. More refined and polished than any model in the room.
More memorable and overwhelming. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit and he was bigger than I remembered. Even in a room full of tall divas his stature demanded every eye.
His dark hair was pulled back from his face. It brought out his stark, perfect bone structure. Gorgeous like his mama’s. Works of art, that family. And his eyes. God, his eyes. Pale gray set against his deep olive skin, with enough intensity in them to make my knees go weak.
He had something in his hand, but I barely had time to note it before he’d wrapped his free arm around my shoulder to pull me in for a hug.
“Hello, Mrs. Castelo,” he said gruffly.
I looked up at him. “Hello, Mr. Castelo.”
I barely got the words out before he bent, putting his lips to mine. He laid one on me.
I knew it was a perfunctory, for the cameras kiss. A kiss from the movies.
I fell for it anyway.
One of his arms was lightly wrapped around my back, his hand gripping my waist. His other hand reached up to lightly cup the back of my head. He dipped me a little. His lips were every bit as soft as I remembered. It lasted only a minute, but I was gripping his lapels and forgetting where we were long before that.
He pulled away faster than I wanted him to, straightening, his calm eyes studying my face.
He didn’t look like he’d been up to anything at all.
I had to school my face back into composure, make my slack mouth shut, and blink my eyes out of their daze. It took some effort.
“I see you’re doing quite well,” he said with utter composure. “I brought you something.” He placed a large velvet box into my hands.
I didn’t respond for a long moment, just staring at the gift that was obviously jewelry. “What’s this?” I asked.
“A gift for my beautiful bride. Open it.”
“Open it here?” I asked, and instantly wanted to snatch the words back. Of course here. He was clearly staging a moment for the tabloids.
“Yes.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes, but I was sure it would photograph just fine all the same. He knew what he was doing. He’d been raised in a beautiful, rich, famous family. Photogenic didn’t begin to cover it. Live-action-video-genic more like.
I turned my attention to my gift. I had to mentally brace myself to give the right reaction for the cameras.
This is just another modeling job, I told myself as I opened the box. Just gush like you’re doing an ad for Tiffany’s. Hell, maybe I’d land something with them next. This could be my audition.
Laid out inside was a dazzling diamond and yellow stone-studded choker, earrings, and bracelet.
I knew this jewelry. It was
his mother’s topaz collection. It was worth a small fortune to the tune of one point two million dollars.
It was not a gift but a loan. I knew this because our prenup was quite detailed about such things. If or when we divorced, I would not be keeping any of the family jewelry, regardless of how publicly he gifted it to me.
I took all of this in in mere seconds, and then let out the appropriate response, gasping loudly, my free hand flying to my throat. My excited eyes flew up to his, and I smiled with as much fake joy as I could muster. “Oh my God, Calder! They’re beautiful. You shouldn’t have.”
“Of course I should have,” he said with a charming smile. His eyes were on me, but I knew our audience had his full attention. I was a less significant accessory to him than this jewelry, though at least I could reassure myself that after our wedding night I was worth considerably more. “It’s our one month anniversary. Didn’t you realize?”
I had not. Was that why he was taking me out? It must’ve been, but I couldn’t imagine him flying into town just for that. Not after a month of no contact.
I recovered from my surprise quickly. “Of course!” I said with loud enthusiasm. “How could I ever forget such a monumental milestone?”
He smiled, and it was a bit crooked, only one corner of his mouth quirking up. It was less perfect than his usual straight, polished, fraudulent smile.
I’d genuinely amused him with that over the top bit of nonsense, I realized.
Why did that make my chest warm with pleasure?
“On every one month anniversary I’m going to drape you in new jewels, wife.”
“You spoil me, husband.”
“Happily.”
When it came to backstage model antics, I’d always been one of the quiet ones. I didn’t cause a lot of drama, or make a lot of waves. I tended to keep to myself. I saw it as a job that I wanted to retain, so I tried to be professional, always. I was friendly with the girls who weren’t terrible, though I’d never made any close friends in the business. I had too hard of a time opening up and being vulnerable to let anyone close, so I tended to come across a touch distant or even cold. It was a defense mechanism, but it had never won me any popularity contests.