The Perfect Illusion

by Winter Renshaw

  “So you want them to think you’re already engaged? What happens when the jig is up and you’re still thirty and unmarried?”

  “This is why I’m offering you three million dollars,” I say. “For the next three months, through wedding season and the family month at Montauk, I want you to play the part of my dutiful, head-over-heels in love fiancée. You must be convincing—we must be convincing. At the end of the three months, you’ll receive half of your payment.”

  She lifts a brow. “Okay, so how would I earn the rest?”

  “By marrying me.” I clear my throat. “On paper.”

  Her expression falls. Clearly the idea holds zero appeal.

  “Until Audrina finds some other poor schmuck to shackle herself to, I need you to be my wife. Legal wife. You don’t have to live with me after this summer. In fact, you don’t have to see me ever again. You simply have to be the name on the marriage certificate that assures my parents that I’m one hundred percent off the market.”

  “What if she takes years to find someone? What if she never finds someone? I’m just supposed to put my life on hold?”

  “Kind of,” I say with a gentle wince. “I know it’s not ideal, but that’s where the other half of your payment comes into play. In the meantime, you’ll be free to date as you please. You’ll be free to fall in love. You just won’t be free to legally marry until we’re able to quietly dissolve our arrangement.”

  “What about holidays? Won’t your family wonder where I am at Christmas?”

  “My parents go to Aspen for Christmas. I hate skiing, so I never join them. Our month at Montauk each summer is about the extent of our family togetherness. I’d be happy to make excuses for you in the coming years. Anyway, I don’t anticipate Audrina will be on the market very long. She’s been holding off for me, but rumor has it she’s got a short list of waiting suitors in her back pocket, and she’s got baby fever something fierce.”

  She pushes her half-eaten bowl of ramen away, resting her head in her hands and staring blankly ahead as if she might actually be contemplating this.

  “What? What are you thinking?” I ask.

  Her brows lift. “That this entire thing sounds insane. And that you’re insane.”

  “Maybe it is. And maybe I am. But I know it could work.”

  She turns to me, her eyes holding mine. “Why me, though? I can’t stand you and you’re well aware.”

  “That’s exactly why it has to be you.”

  “You can’t tell me that out of the assortment of women I’ve seen waltzing in and out of your life the last two months, not one of them would be jumping at the chance to help you with this.”

  “You’re right. They would be. But then they’d want something more, and quite frankly, I have nothing more to give than my last name and a comfortable lifestyle,” I say, checking my wristwatch. “You, Mari … you wouldn’t want more from me, and that’s exactly why you’re the only one I trust.”

  “I don’t know how I could convince anyone I’m in love with someone who gets under my skin the way you do, Hudson.”

  “You said you could act.” I lift a brow.

  “I … yeah … I guess? But can you?”

  Stepping toward her, I take her by the wrist and guide her off the bar stool, pulling her body against mine, meeting her curious gaze with my own sultry version. Cupping her soft cheek in my right hand and letting my fingers graze the nape of her neck, I lift her mouth, holding mine inches from hers.

  She breathes me in, her stare unblinking. My left hand circles her waist, feeling it cave with my touch.

  “I’ve never told you this before … but the day I met you, I knew there was something special about you. And something tells me you’re about to become the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say, my words slow and gentle as our eyes lock. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, until we’re old and gray. We might drive each other crazy, our path may be a bit bumpy at times, but we’re going to love every minute of it. Marry me, Maribel Collins. Be my wife. I don’t want anyone but you.”

  Stillness lingers between us, and then she releases a shuddering breath before blinking. Peeling herself from me, she tucks her thick blonde hair behind her ears before resting her hands on her hips.

  “That was …” Mari leaves her thought unfinished as she moves a few paces back. “That was … cheesy. But passable.” Her lips pull into an bitten grin as she recovers her composure. “You’re good at that.” Glancing up at me, her expression dissolves. “Not that I’m surprised. You’re a professional manipulator.”

  Rolling my eyes, I exhale. “Do you want the money or not?”

  Her hand rests on her stomach briefly, and then she continues pacing. She’s going to wear a beaten path into the wood floor by the time she’s finished.

  “Five million dollars.” I fold my arms. “Final offer.”

  Mari stops in her tracks, her gaze flicking to mine. “I don’t want to do this. I think it’s a bad idea. But you’re making it impossible for me to say no.”

  My mouth curls at the sides.

  “I knew you’d see it my way.” Moving to the door, I begin to show myself out, stopping to turn to her before I go. “My attorney will email you the pre-nuptial agreement. Please sign and return it by tomorrow, though if you’d like your attorney to go over it, I can give you an extra couple of days. Also, I’ll clear my schedule Monday so I can take you shopping.”

  “Shopping?” Her head tilts.

  “You’ll need an engagement ring.” I pull the door wide and step into the hall. “My driver will pick you up at nine Monday morning.”

  “O-okay.” She blinks, eyes wide like she can’t believe this is happening.

  But I can.

  I always get what I want.

  But to be fair, my reward is more than worth her while. I may be a self-serving bastard, but I’m a generous self-serving bastard.

  As long as she does whatever I say, whenever I say … this little arrangement of ours will be a walk in the park.

  Chapter 3

  Mari

  “I’m not going to call you ‘sir’ anymore.” I climb into the backseat of his freshly waxed limousine Monday morning as it gently idles outside my apartment. The scent of supple leather and Hudson’s Creed cologne fills my lungs with dizzying deliciousness the second I inhale. “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend.” Obsessing, really. “I made of list of things I wanted to discuss with you before we dive into all of this. I have expectations too, you know. And I think it’s really important that we—”

  “Hot tea?” Hudson wears a warm smile as he hands me a paper cup with little tufts of steam rising from the lid. “You take yours with a splash of milk and one sugar. Or so I was told.”

  “Oh. Um. Thank you.” I reach for the cup, my fingers brushing his. All things considered, this might be the kindest gesture this man’s made toward me since I’ve known him.

  I settle into my seat, my shoulders relaxing slightly. He’s making an effort. This is good. This is a step in the right direction. This gives me hope that this thing might actually work out.

  “Let me make one thing clear,” I continue, blowing through the lid of my cup, eyes darting to him. “I’m in this for the money and only for the money. And I don’t work for you. I’ll be working with you. Side by side. Like a team. So don’t treat me like your assistant anymore. Don’t ask me to fetch you coffee or your dry cleaning. Even if I were your girlfriend or whatever, I wouldn’t be running your errands. That’s not my style.”

  His full lips arch into a coy smirk, but I have his attention. He’s listening.

  “In order for this to look authentic, it has to feel authentic,” I say, placing my tea aside. “If it’s me you want, it’s me you’re going to get—not some sugar substitute version.”

  The car stops outside a corner building, and an array of trademark red awning-covered windows catch my eye and silence my commentary.

  “We’re here,” he
says as his driver comes around to get the door.

  I’m terribly underdressed for Cartier, but Hudson doesn’t say a word. He places his hand on the small of my back, leans into my ear, and whispers, “Try to keep it under six figures.”

  I nod, swallowing the nervous lump in my throat, and an armed man in a three-piece suit opens the front door with a welcoming smile.

  “There he is!” a woman with shiny silver hair and a red, Jackie O style dress sashays toward us with open arms. “Hudson, my love. How are you? So good to see you. Come, come.”

  “Guinevere.” He leans in for a hug, smiling as she air kisses his cheek, and then he reaches for my hand. “This is my beautiful fiancée, Maribel Collins.”

  Holding hands with Hudson Rutherford isn’t something I imagined doing in a hundred billion years, but I clear my throat, throw my shoulders back, and walk in step past case beyond case of diamond jewels as we follow the lady in the red dress to a private elevator.

  We arrive on the third level a moment later, the woman still rambling on. Apparently she knows Hudson’s family well, having attended prep school with his mother decades ago.

  “We’re going to be in here today,” she says, trailing through a set of double mahogany doors. I’m guessing this building is some former old moneyed industrialist’s turn of the century mansion, and this room looks like it doubled as a study or a library before it was converted to a private showroom. The walls are covered in dark polished board and batten, and the windows are tall and narrow, covered in fine draperies and letting in just enough natural light to send a dazzling glimmer to the curated displays of canary diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires lining the room. “You two have a seat. I’m going to grab a few pieces I pulled. I’ll be right back.”

  Guinevere exits the room, pulling the doors closed behind her, and Hudson and I take our places in two red velvet chairs opposite an expansive desk.

  We’re still holding hands, and I don’t know if he realizes that, but I don’t move. Instead, I remind myself we’re supposed to be “in love.” This is what people who love each other do. They hold hands. They touch. They can’t get enough of each other.

  My stomach turns.

  I don’t know if it’s the morning sickness or the fact that this is all happening so fast.

  “All right.” Guinevere returns, a case in her hand covered in a red velvet cloth. She takes the seat on the other side of the desk and begins lining up the diamonds in size order, and just when I think they can’t possibly get any bigger, she retrieves one last rock the size of my thumbnail and sits it on the end. “And I couldn’t resist this guy. Just for fun. Eight flawless, cushion-cut carats.”

  She winks, flashing a smile in Hudson’s direction.

  “The bigger the better,” I tease, squeezing his hand. “That’s what I always say. Right, babe?”

  “Love, I don’t know.” Guinevere pulls her glasses off her nose, placing them aside as she sighs. “You don’t scream Park Avenue Princess to me. You seem very classic and understated. I wouldn’t go more than three carats for you. This one might be too much, but here.” She hands it over. “Go ahead and try it on.”

  I was only kidding, but I take the bauble and slip it down my left ring finger.

  Fits like a glove.

  I tilt my hand under the light, mesmerized by the fire and sparkle this thing throws. Guinevere is right. I’m not a flashy Park Avenue Princess, and I would never so much as put a ring like this on my wish list, but I’m playing a part. And I’ve seen the girls Hudson spends his spare time entertaining in his luxe penthouse. Girls like those love rings like these, I’m certain.

  I am an actress …

  … and this is a prop.

  It’s that simple.

  “Oh, baby, I love it!” I splay my hand across my chest and bat my lashes.

  Hudson’s eyes land on mine, like he’s trying to silently ask me if I’m joking, but I don’t let up.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” I wave my hand in his face. “And eight carats! We met on the eighth of January. It’s meant to be.”

  “It’s a little … much … for your taste. Don’t you think?” he asks carefully.

  “Not. At. All.” I pull the ring closer, inspecting it as if it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my entire life. And maybe it is. “This is the one. I’m certain.”

  Guinevere sits up straight, her eyes dancing between the two of us as she keeps quiet, watching.

  “Please?” I beg. The real Mari wouldn’t beg. It feels unnatural, like a dress that pulls at the shoulders or shoes that are too big in the toes.

  “You really want this ring?” He lifts his left brow, rubbing his hand along his chiseled jaw.

  I nod, clasping my hands together.

  Hudson sighs, turning to Guinevere. “How much is this one going to set me back?”

  She brings a finger to her lips, breathing in and exhaling. “Well. This one’s special. It once belonged to the Duchess of Guildford in the 19th century. It’s from our Legacy collection. I could show you a few pieces from our Estate collection if you’d like? Those are newer and less … historically significant.”

  “Babe, this is a royal diamond.” I place my hand on top of his, pouting. “This is a piece we could have in our family for generations to come. We could pass this down to our children’s children someday. Could you even imagine?”

  I hate the way I sound. Hate it.

  Hudson sighs. “All right. You going to tell me how much it is?”

  “Just a hair under two hundred,” Guinevere says. “Comparable rings from our Estate collection would be quite less. I’m not sure what your budget is, but—”

  “It’s fine. We’ll take it.” Hudson reaches for my hand and squeezes—hard—before diving into his wallet and retrieving his black AmEx. “Anything for my future wife.”

  “You’re a smart man, Hudson.” Guinevere stands, collecting his card and the remainder of the engagement pieces. “And you’re a very fortunate lady, Maribel. Hudson is one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, and the Rutherfords are a wonderful family to marry into. Your parents must be proud.”

  “They’re thrilled,” I lie.

  My parents have no idea, and ideally, I’d like to keep it that way.

  They’re salt-of-the-earth, childhood sweethearts who’ve never left their hometown of Orchard Hill, Nebraska. They’re humble and kind. They go to St. Mary’s for mass every Sunday and spend the weekends holed up in their Cornhusker-themed living room watching re-runs on HGTV.

  They raised me to walk a straight line, to work hard, and to live a respectable life.

  They wouldn’t understand this.

  And they sure as hell wouldn’t be proud.

  “Guinevere,” Hudson says, “my parents don’t know about the engagement yet, so if you could not mention it next time you see them …”

  “My lips are sealed. I promise. Be back in a moment.” She smiles, slipping her glasses back over her nose and disappearing behind the double doors.

  “Can you not?” Hudson turns to me, his expression fading the second she’s gone.

  “Not what?”

  “Can you not act so vapid and materialistic? Eight carats? Are you fucking kidding me?” He rubs his temples and sinks back in his chair, staring straight ahead past one of the narrow windows. “And don’t call me ‘babe.’ Please.”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted?”

  “What about me makes you think that’s what I wanted?” His words are swift and frustrated.

  “I don’t know,” I shrug. “I’ve seen the kind of women you associate with. I was just trying to be like them.”

  He huffs. “If I wanted a woman like that, I’d have settled down a long time ago, Mari. There’s a reason I chose you for this. You’re not like them.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I lean forward, brows meeting in the middle. “Maybe you should’ve told me what you wanted from me before you brought me here. I’m not a min
d reader. How do you want me to act?”

  “Like yourself. Be authentic. Not a caricature.”

  I wrinkle my nose, readying my rebuttal just as Guinevere returns, two little red boxes in her hand. She slides the small ring box toward us.

  “The ring fits you perfectly,” she says to me. “Correct?”

  I nod.

  “Wonderful.” She smiles, passing Hudson’s card his way along with a receipt to sign. “And if you ever need it sized, please don’t hesitate to bring it back. Also, as a special thank you, I’m throwing in a little something extra.”

  Guinevere slides the larger of the two boxes between us.

  “It’s a love bracelet,” she says, cracking the box open with a gentle pop. A thick gold bangle rests on a velvet pillow alongside a matching gold screwdriver. “This is a signature piece. Very timeless and classic. Hudson, you’re supposed to place it on her wrist and hold onto the screwdriver. You’re the only one who can remove it.”

  My throat is dry. She may as well be presenting me with a medieval chastity belt. Who in their right mind would call this romantic?

  “Wow,” Hudson says. “Thank you. Mari, what do you think?”

  I glance up, our eyes meeting, and I force an uneasy smile.

  “I love it,” I lie, hesitantly holding out my left wrist.

  “Go on,” Guinevere says, tucking her silver hair behind one ear. “Let me see it on you, love.”

  Hudson does the honors and within seconds I’m wearing a beautiful bracelet only he can remove. He slips the screwdriver into an interior pocket in his jacket before lifting my hand to his lips, depositing a kiss.

  “Don’t forget your ring!” Guinevere slides the ring box toward me. “It’s a lovely piece. May it bring you a lifetime of happiness.”

  “Thank you.” I slip the ring over my finger and drop the little red box in my purse. It’s heavy and noticeable, something I didn’t notice when I was too busy playing the part earlier. If I could go back thirty minutes, I’d have settled for something smaller and less … Kardashian.