Page 52 of The Marriage Clause

At eleven-thirty, I'm still in the same chair, tie loosened, jacket off, cursor blinking on an unanswered email while my mind replays the same handful of things on a loop.

Aria barefoot in my kitchen.

Aria feeding me lemon cake in my office.

Aria looking at the blanket in the corner.

Aria offering to get a new apartment to give me space away from her.

I shut the laptop, stand, and walk to the couch, picking up the blanket and pillow on my way to it. I should go home.

I should take the elevator up and walk into the penthouse like a man who can handle sleeping under the same roof as his own fiancée.

Instead, I lie down on the couch, the leather creaking beneath me. My neck is going to hate me in the morning but I do it anyway. Because home is upstairs. And upstairs means her.

Her laugh in the kitchen. Her hair still damp from the shower. Her dress draped over the guest chair. Her making eight damn floors feel like nothing.

Distance must be maintained, wife or not. One year. That's what we agreed to.

I close my eyes, and the last thing I hear before I go under is her voice, quiet and careful:

If having me in your space is a problem…

The problem is that every day that goes on, she feels less and less like a problem.

Not in the way I keep trying to pretend.

And I have no damn idea what to do with that.

Chapter Ten

ARIA

The dress Lana and I picked out is midnight blue.

A fitted bodice with intricate lace and beading, a plunging neckline and off the shoulder straps that give it a romantic feel.

Not the kind that blends in. The kind that makes a room go quiet when you walk through the door. Fitted through the waist, open back, a slit that stops just above the knee. The kind of dress that says "I belong here" even when my hands shake while I zip it.

I stare at myself in the guest suite mirror and try to see what other people will see tonight.

Everett Kauffman’s fiancée.

The ten-million-dollar ring catches the light every time I move my hand. It still feels like wearing someone else’s life on my finger.

My phone buzzes.

Everly: Heels. Not flats. You’re a Kauffman now. Own the room.

I slide on the heels.

Everett is waiting by the elevator when I step into the hall. Dark suit, no tie tonight, the top button of his shirt undone in a way that looks effortlessly sexy. His hair is pushed back and his jaw is freshly shaved. He looks a billionaire heir with the poise of a first-rate education and memberships to the clubs of the elite. There's something underneath it all. Something I've only gotten a small glimpse of before he covers it back up again.

His eyes sweep down once. Fast. Controlled.

Then back to my face.

"Ready?" he asks.