Page 6

No smiles or inappropriate contact with members of the opposite sex.

Just Willow St. Claire and Dylan Durand—the perfect Hollywood couple—hosting a party where everyone is having a great time and totally, completely jealous of how in love we are.

It’s all a façade.

But one that holds…

All the way until the last guest walks out the door and the caterers have been paid and tipped, the leftovers packed up.

All except for a plate for me and a single glass of now-flat champagne.

I’m ravenous because I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

I’ve been too busy with all the party’s last minute details and then hair, makeup, and getting myself into this dress to eat lunch.

And I was working the party—not all that dissimilar to how the caterers and waitstaff and bartenders had done. No, I wasn’t hefting a tray or mixing drinks, but I was putting on that affectation of the perfect couple, sticking close to Dylan at the right times, disappearing as needed, so in tune with his needs and all the rest of the moving parts of the party that I feel like I haven’t breathed all night. Instead, I played the perfect fiancée along with making introductions, ensuring conversations didn’t grow awkward or boring, keeping an eye on the platters of food coming out from the kitchen, that the buffet set up along the far side of the room was constantly stocked, and making sure there was plenty of alcohol—always, there has to be plenty of alcohol—because this is how deals are made.

Or at least, how Dylan makes his deals.

Get someone a little drunk and they are far more likely to agree to the terms he wants.

Something I know.

Something I’m living.

Something I have no idea how to escape.

Because I haven’t always been unhappy.

Once I thought he was my savior.

Now I’m worried he’s my jailer.

Tonight, though, I’m too tired to be worried about the fact that the cage I’ve been living in seems to be growing smaller with each year that passes.

Will it eventually get so small that I can’t breathe?

Can’t move?

Can’t—

“I told you that you can’t eat that shit.”

I jerk, nearly upend my plate of scavenged leftovers—two stuffed mushrooms, a couple of slivers of cheese, one piece of bruschetta, and a handful of carrots.

“You know that a pound on your frame”—Dylan’s eyes drag down my body—“is ten on the screen.”

“I’m hungry,” I say quietly. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

His mouth presses flat, unhappiness in his eyes.

“And I have a session with Margie in the morning”—the personal trainer he hired—“I’ll work out for an extra half hour tomorrow.”

He releases his lips. “An extra hour.”

God, that’s torture.

But I don’t argue.