Page 34 of Devotion
I let out a slow breath through my nose. Good thing she said it was being suppressed. The last thing I needed was another round of my face on every entertainment blog in the country.
“Entertainment reporters have connected the woman in the video to Miley,” Eleanor continued. “The press linked her to you, Christopher. Whether you intended it or not, the public is building a story about the two of you.”
Wait. What?
“That’s the press doing what the press does. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything. Because the narrative is already half-built and it’s the best narrative you could ask for. A woman who saved your life. A woman who defended you publicly. A woman the country already likes because she’s genuine and sympathetic and came out of that restaurant disaster without her image getting tarnished.” Eleanor paused.
When she spoke again, her voice held wonder. “Thinking about it, if you need a fiancée, and you do, the woman the pressis already associating with you might be the most logical choice. Maybe we can ask Miley to?—”
“No.”
The word was immediate and firm. I stood there, heart beating too fast.
“We are not dragging her into this,” Christopher said. “She’s an innocent woman who lost her business because of me. I already destroyed her career once. I’m not going to repay her kindness by turning her into a prop for the board.”
My breath caught. I wasn’t expecting that. He was refusing to use me. It meant a whole lot more to me than he’d ever know.
Eleanor was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler. “You’re right. She deserves better than that. I’ll look into other prospects. Someone suitable. Someone who understands the arrangement and enters it with open eyes. And you’ll also keep looking?”
“I’ll try. Didn’t think a contract marriage would be this difficult to arrange,” Christopher muttered.
“You need to try harder. You work with women, I’m sure if you try enough you’d find one who will accept the terms. The clock is ticking. Paul won’t wait forever. And Esmeralda won’t stop.”
Their conversation moved to other things. Company business. Board politics. I stopped listening and went back to the risotto, which needed stirring, and my brain, which needed considerably more than stirring.
That night, I lay in the guest suite bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about everything.
Christopher Vale needed a wife. A temporary one. Someone to stand beside him and look stable and convince a room full of powerful people that the playboy actor had settled down. He needed this to keep his position, to protect the company, to honor whatever promise he’d made to Eleanor.
And he’d refused to ask me. He’d said he wouldn’t drag me in.
I thought about Vicky, about the custody case, about the legal fees that were bleeding her dry. The money Christopher had offered for Sazón’s reconstruction was already earmarked—this would be separate, additional.
If I married Christopher, even temporarily, the financial compensation could fund a custody lawyer who actually fought back. It could stabilize Vicky’s life long enough for her to get on her feet. It could keep Eloise with her mother.
Eleanor needed this too. She needed her grandson to succeed because the company was her legacy, her life’s work. And she’d helped me. The trust fund. She’d fought for me when I had no one. The least I could do was fight for her family now.
I didn’t sleep well. My brain ran circles around the same questions until the ceiling started looking like it had opinions.
I woke from a dreamless sleep. It was already morning, pale light coming through the windows, no street noise reaching the room, as if the house was insulated from the world outside.
I found Christopher in the kitchen making coffee. Gray t-shirt and sweatpants, sleeves pushed up, pouring water into the machine. His hair fell loose around his face, dark and uncombed, and without the suits and charm, he looked years younger—softer, almost boyish.
He looked up when I walked in. His eyes tracked me as I crossed to the cabinet and pulled out a mug.
“Hello, Miley. Glad to see you. My grandmother compliments your cooking.”
“It’s what I’m paid to do.” I smiled faintly.
“She said the risotto was the best she’s had in years. And Eleanor has eaten risotto in Milan, so that’s not a small thing.”
“Milan risotto is overrated,” I said, and then immediately thought, did I just insult Italian cooking in front of a man who’sprobably dined with actual Italian chefs?But Christopher’s mouth twitched at the corner, the almost-smile I was starting to recognize, and I decided the comment could live.
We stood on opposite sides of the island. The coffee maker gurgled between us. The kitchen smelled like fresh grounds and the rosemary from Eleanor’s garden, and I thought about how strange it was—standing here, in a house that wasn’t mine, across from a man I’d admired for a decade and been working for exactly one day.
He opened his mouth, started to say something, and stopped. He looked down at his coffee, then back at me. Tried again.
