Page 4 of Arranged with Twins
Sienna
T he espresso machine hisses and gurgles in my penthouse kitchen while I stare at the newspaper spread across the marble counter. The engagement announcement takes up half the society page, complete with three different photographs of Leo and me looking like the perfect Manhattan power couple.
I barely recognize myself in the images. The woman in those pictures looks happy. She certainly doesn’t look like someone who spent most of the evening plotting escape routes and wondering how much trouble she’d get in for pushing her fiancé off the balcony.
The largest photo shows us during the formal announcement, with Leo’s hand at the small of my back while I smile brilliantly at the camera.
The second captures us on the terrace, his jacket draped over my shoulders in what appears to be a tender moment.
The third is from earlier in the evening, with our hands clasped while we speak privately near the bar.
To anyone reading this story, we’re clearly a couple deeply in love and finally ready to take the next step together.
Gross. Everything is so fucking fake.
The headline reads “Cooper Heiress Announces Engagement to Business Mogul Leonid Denisov” in elegant script above a breathless account of our whirlwind romance.
According to the article, we’ve been quietly dating for months, keeping our relationship private until we were certain of our feelings.
The writer gushes about Leo’s philanthropic work and my educational achievements, painting us as Manhattan’s newest power couple with bright futures ahead.
Every word is carefully crafted fiction, but I have to admit Mother and her publicity team did their job well. If I didn’t know better, I might actually believe this fairy tale myself.
I’m not so na?ve. Nothing will convince me that Leo actually cares about me.
The doorbell chimes, and I know without checking that it’s Nadia.
She has a key, but she always rings first as a courtesy, which is one of many small habits that makes her such a thoughtful friend.
I buzz her up and return to glaring at the newspaper, wondering how Mother managed to make this arrangement look so romantic in print when the reality feels anything but.
Nadia bursts through the door five minutes later with a paper bag from our favorite bakery and enough enthusiasm to power a small city.
Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun secured with what looks like a vintage art deco hairpin, and she’s wearing one of her own designs.
The dress is flowing silk in deep emerald that makes her look like she stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
Silver embroidery traces intricate patterns along the neckline and sleeves.
Cute, as always. It makes me jealous sometimes, but it’s impossible to hate someone so sweet.
She drops the bag on the counter and practically bounces on her toes. “I brought pain au chocolat and I need to see every single photo from last night. I can’t believe I missed your engagement party while I was locked in my studio until three in the morning.”
I pour coffee for both of us, using the ritual to center myself. “You were working on that commission for the Broadway revival, right? How did that go?”
Nadia’s face lights up. “Even better than I hoped. The actress loved the final costume so much that she’s commissioning three more pieces for her personal wardrobe. Apparently, she wants to wear my designs to all the major industry events this season.”
The enthusiasm in her voice makes my chest ache with a touch of envy.
Nadia is living the life I dreamed about during my years at London School of Economics.
She’s building something of her own while creating beauty and art that people actually want.
Meanwhile, I’m being fitted for the role of trophy wife in a drama for which I never auditioned.
“That’s incredible,” I say and mean it despite my own complicated feelings. “You’ve worked so hard for recognition like this.”
“It doesn’t feel real yet,” she says, then snatches the newspaper from my hands. “Let’s talk about your news. Let me see these photos properly.”
She spreads the paper across the counter and studies each image with the professional eye she brings to everything visual. I watch her face as she takes in the composition, the lighting, and the careful staging that went into creating these supposedly candid moments.
“You look absolutely stunning,” she says, though I catch the slight frown that crosses her features. “Wait, this isn’t the dress I made for you.”
The words make me nod and tamp down a surge of resentment. “Mother vetoed it. She said it was too flamboyant for an engagement announcement. Apparently, understated elegance was more appropriate for the occasion.” I roll my eyes.
Nadia’s frown deepens, and she sets down her coffee cup with more force than necessary. “I spent three weeks on that dress. The beadwork alone took forty hours, and I designed the entire silhouette specifically for your body. It would have been perfect for you.”
“I know. I loved it.” The admission stings more than I expected.
The dress Nadia created was everything I would have chosen for myself if I had any actual choice in my own life.
It was bold silver silk with intricate beadwork that caught the light like scales and fitted through the bodice before flowing into an elegant train.
It was artistic, unique, and beautiful. It was also exactly the opposite of the safe navy Valentino Mother selected. “What will happen to it?”
She brightens considerably, though I catch the slight tension around her eyes.
“I bet I can sell it to the actress I was working with last night. I was showing her my portfolio, and she fell in love with it. I told her it wasn’t for sale, but I guess it is.
” Her disappointment is obvious before she lets out a deep breath.
“Anyway, at least someone gets to wear it properly, and it will cover my rent for the next two months.”
“I’m glad,” I say, though the words leave me feeling sad not happy.
I should have been able to wear my own engagement dress and have some say in how I looked on one of the most photographed nights of my life.
Instead, I’m left with another reminder that I have no control over even the smallest details of my existence.
Nadia reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted to wear it.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s just another example of how little say I have in anything that matters.
” I pull my hand free and reach for the pastry bag, needing something to do with my nervous energy.
“Sometimes, I think Mother forgets I’m an actual person rather than a life-sized doll she can dress up however she pleases. ”
“This will change when you get married though, won’t it?” Nadia tears her pain au chocolat into small pieces while she talks. “You’ll have more say in your own decisions once you’re away from your parents’ direct influence, right?”
The question makes me laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Do you really think my fake husband will care any more about my input than my parents do? This entire arrangement is about control, not partnership. I’m trading one set of handlers for another.”
“Maybe not at first, but relationships can evolve. People and circumstances change.” She’s clearly trying to convince herself as much as me. “He might surprise you. Last night, from what I could see in these photos, he seemed attentive. Protective, even.”
“Protective of his investment, maybe.” I sip my coffee and watch steam rise from the mug, thinking about Leo’s intervention with Hamilton, which was surprising and added another layer to his character.
Pushing aside that unwanted memory in order to vent instead, I say, “The only thing that would surprise me is if Leo Denisov turned out to be anything other than exactly what he appears to be, which is a man who’s used to getting what he wants, when he wants it, without having to ask nicely.”
Nadia considers this while chewing thoughtfully. She’s always been more optimistic than me and more willing to believe in happy endings and romantic possibilities. It’s one of the things I love about her, even when her hope feels na?ve given my current circumstances.
She mulls it over for several long moments as her expression grows more serious. “You know what? You’re probably right. Marriage for convenience usually means more obedience than ever, doesn’t it? Especially when there’s that much money and power involved.”
Her admission deflates me more than her earlier optimism did. If even Nadia, eternal romantic that she is, thinks this arrangement is hopeless, I really am in trouble.
“Let’s look at the photos online,” she says, pulling out her phone. “Sometimes, the social media coverage captures different angles.”
We scroll through Instagram posts from various party attendees, and the documentation is thorough.
Everyone who was anyone at last night’s gala has posted something, and Leo and I feature prominently in most of the images.
The comments are universally positive, full of congratulations and speculation about wedding dates.
“Look at this one,” Nadia says, showing me a post from a fashion blogger I follow. “She’s calling you two Manhattan’s most elegant new couple. ‘Sienna Cooper brings classic sophistication to match Leonid Denisov’s powerful presence.’ That’s actually lovely.”
“It would be, if any of it were real.” I scroll down to read more comments, each one reinforcing the fiction that this is some grand romantic gesture rather than a business transaction. “They’re all calling me Leo’s bride like I’ve already lost my identity completely.”
Nadia glances up from her phone. “That bothers you more than the arrangement itself, doesn’t it? The way people are already defining you through him?”