Contract Bride

"You're going to his bed tonight."

I freeze with the dish in my hands halfway to the drying rack. The water drips from my fingers onto the kitchen floor, each drop quite loud in the sudden silence.

Celeste stands in the doorway, perfectly dressed in her cream silk dress. She doesn't look at me when she speaks. She never does.

"I don't understand," I say, even though some part of me already does.

"Vivienne has other plans." She examines her nails, absentmindedly "You'll take her place."

My stomach drops. "How? Take her place where?"

"Damien Ashford's penthouse. He's expecting his fiancée tonight." Now she looks at me, her gaze mean and unyielding. "There's a contract requirement. Some virginity verification thing before the wedding. Tonight is the scheduled... consummation."

The dish slips from my hands, and it shatters against the tile. The shock I feel is overwhelming. I have been everything slave, but a one night stand? That was far.

"I can't—"

"You will." Celeste steps over the broken porcelain like it doesn't exist. The same way she acts like I don't exist.

"You resemble her enough. It's night, there'd be no conversation, he'd get what he wants. He'll never know. Louise, he must never know." Her last line was beyond just a statement. We both knew it was a threat.

"But—"

"But nothing. Vivienne leaves for Monaco in two hours. She can't reschedule, and Damien Ashford doesn't wait." Her smile is thin, calculated. "You're a virgin, aren't you, Elara?"

Heat floods my face and I am unable to answer.

"Of course you are. We've made sure of that. A car will pick you up at eight. Vivienne's stylist will prepare you. You'll wear her perfume, her jewelry. You'll do exactly as you're told."

She types something into her phone, then glances at me. "Unless you'd prefer I tell your father you've been stealing from the household accounts?"

My blood goes cold. "I haven't—"

"I have receipts that say otherwise and they're signed with your name." She tilts her head. "One night, Louise. Do this, and you'll never have to see him again."

The room tilts and I feel very sick in my belly. Of all things, I least imagine this one.. I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. My hands shake and I ball them into fists to hide it.

"What if—" I swallow hard. "What if something goes wrong? What if I get pregnant?"

For the first time, something flickers in her expression. If I was still 5, I'd have thought it was compassion but now, I know better. It was all an act.

"Then we'll deal with it. We already have arrangements in place." She turns toward the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Louise? If you try to run, I'll find you. And when I do, prison will be the least of your problems."

When she leaves, the kitchen falls silent except for the drip of the faucet and my own ragged breathing.

I look down at my hands. They're red and raw from years of scrubbing floors, washing dishes, cleaning up after people who pretend I don't exist.

Celeste married my father when I was five and within a year, I went from daughter to servant. My father stopped looking at me. If I was superstitious, I'd have believed it was some voodoo thing.

I learned to be invisible. And now, for one night, I have to be someone else entirely.

Vivienne's stylist works fast—my hair is twisted up, eyes lined dark, lips painted red.

When it's done, I look like her, but I don't feel like her.

Vivienne appears in the doorway, wine glass in hand while she studies me with cold amusement.

"Don't talk," she says as she comes close to lift my chin up and turn me around like I'm some thing being inspected. "Just do what he wants and come home."

When she's done, the car arrives and fifteen minutes after I'm at his building.

The elevator opens directly into his penthouse and I see Damien Ashford stand by the window, perfectly still.

He turns to face me, and I do not know how to feel. His gaze cuts straight through me and I'm uneasy. Shaky.

He doesn't smile. The news claim him to be a shrewd business man with no emotion to him, and seeing him now, I believe them.

The doors close behind me with a soft click that sounds like a trap snapping shut.

"Vivienne," he says.

My throat tightens. I'm not supposed to speak. I was told not to speak.

He crosses the room in three strides. Stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"You're late."

"I'm sorry—" no. No. Vivienne is never sorry.

His hand catches my chin, tilting my face toward the light. His grip is firm, and he studies me for a long moment, and I watch his expression shift.

"You're not her. You're not Vivenne.” My heart stops.