The Perfect Illusion

by Winter Renshaw

  Too late.

  “Shall we?” Hudson rises, extending his elbow, and I follow suit, slipping my hand under his arm. Guinevere shows us to the door, and I catch a glimpse of his limo waiting on the street corner.

  His driver pops out, circling the idling car in a hurry and grabbing the door for us.

  “Are you satisfied with your engagement ring?” Hudson asks a moment later, when we’re cruising down Fifth Avenue and the privacy partition is raised.

  I glance down. It doesn’t shimmer as much in the dark. I guess it makes sense though—diamonds need light in order to shine.

  “It’s a beautiful ring,” I say.

  “Yes, but do you love it?”

  “Does it matter?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he checks his watch. “I’m going to head into the office. My driver will drop you off at Henri Bendel’s where you’re meeting with my stylist, Elle. She’ll be choosing some pieces for you—for the summer in Montauk. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “She’s been instructed to outfit you with a few staples in addition to your Hamptons wardrobe.”

  “What’s wrong with my current wardrobe?” I tilt my chin down, squinting. “You never had a problem with it at the office.”

  “I don’t want you dressing like an assistant anymore.”

  “I thought you wanted me to be myself?” I glance down at my gray slacks and white blouse.

  “I do want you to be yourself.” He reaches across the empty middle seat and places his hand over mine. “But I’d love for you to dress the part.”

  “That’s right. I forgot you have an eye for design.” I roll my eyes when he’s not looking.

  “Design is everything. Aesthetics are everything.” He glances out the window to his right, his hand remaining on mine. I recognize the street ahead. We’re getting closer to the office. This time last week, I was scrambling around ordering lunch for some English architects he decided to host at his office at the last minute. When it was over, he told me I should have chosen a better restaurant, one for more sophisticated palates.

  “Beauty is only skin deep.”

  The car comes to a slow stop outside Rutherford Architectural’s building.

  “I give zero fucks about beauty.” He turns to me. “Design? That’s what matters. When you look at a building or a piece of art and it makes you feel something? That’s design. Someone intentionally created their piece with the sole purpose of making you feel something when you look at it. Beauty is secondary. Beauty is the stone or the marble or the fabric. The interpretation of the design.”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with the way I dress.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Mari,” he says. “And if you’re going to be mine, I won’t have you hiding beneath cheap design. I’m upgrading your wardrobe effective immediately.”

  I laugh. “Why? So you can feel something when you look at me?”

  The driver opens Hudson’s door, but Hudson stays, letting his gaze linger on mine as we bask in temporary silence. He doesn’t answer me. He simply steps out a second later.

  Straightening his suit jacket, he runs a hand down his thin black tie before leaning down to meet my gaze one last time.

  “Elle will take good care of you today.” His lips press together and he exhales through his nose. “I’ll pick you up around one for lunch.”

  “Oh? I had no idea. I’m supposed to meet one of my friends then. You have to tell me these things in advance.”

  “You’ll need to reschedule.”

  “I said I’d help you out, Hudson. I didn’t say you could commandeer my entire life.”

  “I’m not commandeering anything. We need to have a date. We need to get to know each other. Soon you’ll be accompanying me to Montauk for the month of June, which means we need to be spending every spare moment together until then.”

  I exhale, my fingers spinning the ridiculous ring on my finger.

  “See you at one,” he says before turning to leave.

  The driver closes the door and returns to the front, and I grab my phone, texting my best friend, Isabelle, to ask for a rain check and promising to explain everything as soon as I can.

  Settling back against the smooth leather seat, I stare at Manhattan through a tinted window, placing my hand on my lower belly.

  “I’m doing this for you, baby,” I whisper.

  Chapter 4

  Hudson

  Mari climbs into the backseat as my driver loads her bags into the trunk.

  “Hi.” She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, brushing her hands along the back of her skirt-covered thighs.

  That’s new.

  I scan her from head to toe.

  Her hair is lighter than before, parted deep on one side and slightly curled, and her lips are slicked in deep cherry red. A willowy blouse cut low in the front clings to her shoulders.

  She looks … chic. Effortlessly classy. And I can’t take my fucking eyes off her.

  “You look nice,” I say, my mouth forming a crooked smirk as I allow my gaze to linger a bit longer than usual.

  She smooths her hand over a loose tendril. “Thanks. Got a bit of a makeover today. You were right about Elle. She’s got a great eye. And thank you for the clothes. I agree … my wardrobe was in dire need of an upgrade.”

  There’s a gleam in Mari’s blue eyes that I didn’t expect. A veiled smile too. Already I can see she’s carrying herself differently. A little more charm? A little more grace? A little more confidence than before? Not that she was lacking. I’d always thought of Mari as somewhat of a quiet storm; assertive, beautiful, and potentially destructive if not properly handled.

  It isn’t her fault though. It’s her age—her generation. They want the world at the snap of their entitled little fingertips. They want it all and they want it yesterday.

  But they’re not ready.

  One minute they’re giving world-class presentations in boardrooms and the next minute they’re hurling tantrums like a teething toddler when something doesn’t go their way.

  This experience will be good for Mari. I think she’s really going to hit her stride under my wing, and when it’s over, she’ll find herself a little more refined, a little more patient, and she’ll find the world is a little more within her reach than it was before.

  “I hope you’re not too hungry. I moved our reservations so we could make a little stop on the way,” I say, checking my watch.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Your apartment. Then the restaurant.”

  “And why are we stopping at my apartment?” Her nose wrinkles.

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Mari crosses her long legs and slides back into the seat as we merge into the busy mid-day traffic. Within a half hour, we’re sitting outside her building, parked behind a moving truck.

  Leaning forward, she squints toward the uniformed men lugging furniture pieces up a ramp.

  “That looks like my …” her voice trails off. “That’s … is that my dresser?”

  Reaching for the door handle, she scurries to climb out of the limo. I follow, placing my hand on her shoulder as she stares wide-eyed as her things are loaded.

  “What are you doing with my things?” She turns to me. “And how did you get access to my apartment?”

  “You’re moving in with me.”

  “And why wasn’t this communicated with me?” She whips her gaze in my direction, her hands landing on her hips.

  “It was. Didn’t you read the contract you signed over the weekend?”

  “Of course I read it.”

  “Then surely you read the fine print?” I ask.

  Her expression wilts as she glances over my shoulder and into the distance.

  “Pretty sure I would’ve noticed a cohabitation clause,” she says, chewing on the inside of her lip. Mari exhales, and I watch in real time as her frustration seems to
be redirected at herself.

  “Either way, it’s a done deal. It’s happening. You’re living with me—in the guest suite of course,” I say. “It’s important that we get to know each other’s habits—our idiosyncrasies, if you will. We need to have some kind of authentic semblance of a relationship. It can’t all be acting. Now, go upstairs and collect your personal belongings. Everything else will go into storage. I’ll wait here in the car.”

  Mari exhales, saying nothing before she turns on her heels and shimmies between two movers carrying oversized crates of her pre-Rutherford life.

  Smirking, I climb back into the car.

  I knew I chose well.

  Chapter 5

  Mari

  “If you need anything, dial seven on your phone. Marta will be able to assist you. I’ll be in my study. You’re welcome to join me once you’re settled in.”

  Hudson disappears, closing my bedroom door behind him, and I bask in the surrealness of this moment. One minute I’m quitting my job, the next minute I’m plucked from my world, given a Pretty Woman-esque makeover and a lavish bedroom suite easily twice the size of my shoebox apartment.

  Circling the room, I pass by the east window, taking in the view of the city from what feels like the top of the world. It’s raining now, little drops beading against the crystal clear glass. Two bedside lamps flank a king-sized bed fit for a spread in Metropolitan Home magazine, and I run to the foot, sinking down in the middle. The bedding is cashmere soft and smells faintly of lavender linen spray.

  A knock at my door pulls me from this magical moment, and I scramble to my feet.

  “Yes, come in,” I call.

  The door swings open and Hudson’s driver stands there, Henri Bendel bags in his arms.

  “Your things, Miss Collins,” he says.

  I step out of the way, ushering him in. For a moment, I’d forgotten all about today’s shopping excursion. I’ve never been a materialistic person, and I never want to be. But nothing beats having a personal stylist pulling pieces shaped for my body type in colors meant to flatter my hair and skin. If it weren’t for Elle, I never would have known that fuchsia was my color. And if it weren’t for Manuel at the Fekkai salon, I never would’ve thought lopping a couple of inches off my hair and changing up my part would alter my entire look for the better.

  On this ordinary Monday, this modest Midwestern girl was queen for the day, and I’ll never forget it as long as I live.

  “Thank you, Rocco,” I say when he returns with another armful of bags, placing them near the dresser.

  A few minutes later, dozens of paper shopping bags cover the hardwood floor, and I hum softly to myself as I hang my new wardrobe in the walk-in closet and organize about a dozen shoeboxes along wooden shelves.

  When I’m finished, I pass the dresser, catching my reflection in the mirror. At first pass, it doesn’t immediately register that the girl staring back … is me. I stop, giving myself a curious glance. Twisting a tendril of hair and tucking it behind my ear, my gaze falls on my faded red lips. The day is already starting to wear off, and the second I strip out of this Dior pencil skirt and Chanel blouse and wash the rest of this makeup off my face, my Cinderella moment will be over.

  But that’s okay.

  I don’t want this experience to change me.

  I’m fine the way I am. I like myself, unlike most women I know who are my age. And besides, when I move back to Nebraska and have my baby, no one’s going to care which labels fill my closet or whether or not my shoes have red bottoms.

  Turning to leave, I hit the light switch on my way out and stride down the hall toward Hudson’s study.

  He’s right. We have to spend time together and get to know each other’s annoying little habits. One erroneous statement and this entire thing could come skidding to a halt, and then all of this will have been for nothing.

  I pass a portrait gallery, one I’ve never noticed before. I’ve roamed these halls dozens of times before, always dropping off his dry cleaning or signing for packages when Marta’s out running errands. Never once did I envision myself living here. The faces staring back in the photographs must be his family. And soon they’ll be my family—at least on paper.

  Weird.

  Everything feels brand new, like I’m seeing this place for the first time all over again: the view of the city from his living room windows, the glossy marble kitchen, the floor-to-ceiling fireplace, the custom chandelier in his foyer. Every square inch of this place was planned with purpose and intention, which isn’t surprising considering Hudson’s eye for detail.

  Making my way to his study, I linger in the doorway and watch him work. He doesn’t notice me. He’s far too concerned with the sketch he’s working on, placing the pencil between his full lips at times and dragging his hands through his hair.

  I’ve never taken the time to watch him work—at least not like this.

  He’s actually kind of sexy when he’s in the zone, all serious and contemplative.

  “Don’t they make software that does that for you?” I interrupt his focus with a playful question.

  He drops his drafting pencil. “My computer’s at the office. Besides, even the best CAD program is no substitute for some good, old-fashioned hand-sketching.”

  He rises, presenting his paper in my direction. It appears to be a home of some kind, one with vintage familiarity that would look perfectly content resting on a beachfront lot.

  “What’s that for?” I ask. I’ve only ever seen him work on commercial projects.

  “My cousin has tasked me with designing her Cape Cod estate,” he says. “What do you think?”

  I move closer, taking the paper from his hands and examining it carefully. “I don’t know the proper terms for any of these things, but I like the roof lines. And I like the shake siding. I think it’s called shake, right? And I like how the front porch wraps around the house so you can always find a shady place to sit no matter where the sun is in the sky. The double front doors are a nice touch, and those little windows above the garage. It’s homey yet it makes a statement. If I were driving past this house, I think I’d slow down a little and take a longer look.”

  “Perfect.” He takes the paper back. “That’s exactly what I’m going for.”

  Placing his drawing aside, he grabs a jacket from the back of his office chair and slips it over his shoulders.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Out.” He lifts a brow, adjusting his sleeves and straightening his posture.

  “I thought you said we needed to spend time together?”

  “I’m just grabbing a couple of drinks, Mari. It’s my Monday night ritual. The Cypress Taproom on Houston has a table reserved for me.”

  “I don’t care if the Queen of England has a table reserved for you at Buckingham Palace … you’re not going out without me.” I fight a smart-assed grin, letting my words slice through his cold demeanor. “You want authentic, Hudson? This is authentic. I’m your girlfriend now. Fiancée. Whatever. You can’t go out for drinks and leave me at home. It’s rude. People in relationships don’t do that.”

  He smirks, rubbing his jaw. “I suppose you have a point.”

  “I know I have a point,” I spit my words. “You don’t get to pull me out of my world, dress me up like some doll, and sit me on a shelf in your apartment until you’re ready to play with me. If we’re going to do this, let’s do this.”

  Hudson places a palm in the air. “Don’t lecture me, Mari. Please. It’s inappropriate.”

  “What’s inappropriate is the fact that you insisted I move in with you immediately because we needed to spend as much time together as possible and the second I was settled in, you were going to run out of here to grab some drinks by yourself.”

  “Point. Taken.” His jaw clenches, his gaze steely. “Forgive me. Old habits die hard. Not accustomed to my social obligations being attached to anyone else’s. Would you like to join me?”

  “No thanks.” Not tha
t I could if I wanted to anyway. I hold my chin high. “We’re staying in tonight. Like a regular, boring couple.”

  His expression fades. Clearly the idea doesn’t appeal to him.

  “Have you ever had a girlfriend, Hudson? Like a serious, long-term relationship?” I ask.

  “Once,” he says. “In college. It was awful.”

  I chuckle. “Figures.”

  “So what do we do now?” he asks.

  Sighing, I glance up at the ceiling and deduce that there’s only one appropriate plan of action in this moment.

  “You’re going to have to teach me how to live in your world,” I say, “and I’ll teach you how to be a good fiancé.”

  Hudson smirks. “Obviously. I meant what do we do now … as in tonight.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks warm. “Right. We could change into some comfortable clothes and sit on the couch and watch Netflix?”

  He stares straight ahead, unable to mask the disgust on his face.

  “What’s wrong with that?” I ask. “Don’t you ever just zone out and binge watch some really addictive TV?”

  “I don’t have time for … Netflix.”

  “You do now.” I take him by the arm and lead him to his living room. “Where’s your TV?”

  “Not in here.”

  “I forgot. Rich people don’t keep their TVs in plain view.” I roll my eyes, releasing my hand from his arm. “Is it in your room?”

  “I have one in the master suite, yes,” he says. “I’ll have to see if I can find the remote. Not sure where Marta put it …”

  “Okay, go find it. I’m going to change out of this skirt and into something I can lounge around in. And you should too. I’ll meet you in your room in ten minutes, and then we’re watching Orange is the New Black.”

  “Orange is the new what?”

  “It’s a show. You’ll like it. Trust me.” I stifle my laughter. The idea of Hudson Rutherford watching a bunch of imprisoned women fuck each other over (and occasionally fuck each other) makes me giggle. It’s so not his style, but damn is that show addictive.