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IMOGINE

“ S o, tell me again how you were able to pay rent so far ahead?” my dad asks as he adjusts his tie. It’s still a bit crooked, so I get up from the couch and tighten the knot while straightening the rest of the tie. “Thanks, sunshine,” he says with a warm smile.

“I made good tips yesterday and got an advance on my check,” I say as I turn my back to him. I don’t want him to see the lie written all over my face. “And I worked out a deal for, uh, for payments on rent for the next few months. You just focus on paying off… other things.”

We haven’t talked about three nights ago when Marco showed up and demanded fifty thousand dollars. I’m not sure what my dad’s plan is, but I need to figure out a way to tell him his debt is forgiven so he doesn’t do something stupid like gamble away another paycheck. Ideally, he’ll make legit money and we can actually have something in savings for once.

Silence stretches between us, and I know my father wants to ask more questions about the money. I’ve never gotten an advance on a check before, so why now? How did I make such good tips when I was scheduled for the early morning shift, which is notorious for shitty tips?

Before he gets a chance to voice his concerns, a light knock sounds from the door of our room. I glance at my father over my shoulder, both of us exchanging questioning looks. We wait for more knocking or maybe a gunshot, but nothing follows.

I move toward the door, but my dad stops me with an outstretched arm. He takes a few cautious steps toward the door, peeking through the peephole to see who’s there. Opening the door reveals no one, but a dozen bags filled with groceries, toilet paper, toothpaste, shampoo, and other necessities sits outside.

My dad cranes his head out the door, looking left and right to see who left this for us. I already know it was Marco. I didn’t ask for this, and honestly, I’m confused. I thought I was stretching my luck by asking him to pay rent. He must have realized how desperate our situation was and that we probably couldn't afford groceries if we couldn’t afford rent.

“Imogine?” my father calls out, sounding confused.

I look at him and see that he’s holding an envelope with my name on it. I take it before he can open it.

He frowns. “What kind of deal did you make, exactly?”

Without answering him, I open the envelope, revealing a neatly handwritten note.

Our first engagement is tonight. It’s a very public fundraiser that will establish our relationship. You’ll be picked up at 5 pm sharp for hair, makeup, and wardrobe. - M

“Just Sal from the diner. You know how he likes to look after us.” Sal has been the head cook at the diner for longer than I’ve been alive. He’s been known to pay bills, drop off meals, and do light maintenance work for his coworkers when they need a helping hand. It’s not out of the realm of possibility for him to do something like this, but my gut twists up with yet another lie.

Looking up from the note, I see my dad giving me a very skeptical expression. “Sal usually doesn’t provide two weeks’ worth of food and toiletries,” he says flatly.

“Well, we’re in no position to refuse his kindness, are we?” I say dismissively. I know I hit my mark when my dad’s shoulders slump slightly. I hate shaming him, but it’s the only way to get him off my back with all the holes he’s poking in my excuses. Plus, it’s the most truthful thing I’ve said during this whole interaction. We’re not in a position to say no, and it’s okay for him to feel the weight of that sometimes, even if it hurts to watch.

“Do you need help putting everything away?” he asks, changing the subject. I look over at the clock on the microwave and then shake my head. “I’ve got it. You should get to work.” My dad nods and then gives me a side hug. I can tell he’s still confused, but he’s done needling me for answers. At least for now. “I’m picking up a late shift at the diner, so I won’t be here when you get back.”

The lies keep slipping off my tongue, each one easier than the last. I don’t like it, but it’s what I have to do for now.

True to his word, a black SUV rolls into the motel parking lot several hours later, at five o'clock sharp, stopping right outside our door. I wasn’t sure what to plan for or expect, but Marco said hair, makeup, and clothes would be provided. I still wanted to look professional, so I put on the same outfit from when I had my meeting with Marco.

After locking our door, I take a cleansing breath and psych myself up for what’s to come. To my surprise, the back door opens to reveal two women—one who appears to be in her forties and the other in her mid-seventies. I think I must be mistaken at first, but then I hear my name.

“Imogine? We’re here to pick you up for your makeover,” the younger woman says.

The two women look me up and down, their eyes scanning my curves, hair, face—everything about me. They whisper to themselves, and I wonder if they are about to call the whole thing off and deem me a lost cause.

“Chop chop, dear. We have a lot of work to do,” the older woman says, resting her shrewd gaze on mine.

Just like that, I’m whisked off to a salon on the other side of town, far away from the pawn shops, bail bonds companies, and strip clubs scattered around this neighborhood.

The next two hours are filled with hairspray, bobby pins, eyeshadow pallets, and a dozen people taking my measurements. I’m breathless by the time Maria, the younger of the two women in the SUV, zips up the back of my dress.

She stands behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror. I’m speechless. I’ve never worn a ballgown, and certainly not one with Swarovski crystals embedded in the bodice. My dark hair has been curled, teased, and swept to the side in an elegant, twisted bun with a few strands framing my face. The dark blue smokey eye matches the royal blue skirt of the gown while also making my light blue eyes sparkle. The deep red matte lipstick is sexy, seductive, and pretty much the opposite of who I am, but I don’t hate it. In fact, it’s exactly the disguise I need to pull off this whole thing.

“Wow,” I whisper more to myself than anyone else.

“We do good work, don’t we?” Maria asks, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

I nod. “I can’t believe it’s really me under all this.”

“Now, now. None of that self-deprecating talk. An artist is only as good as their subject, and you, my dear, are beautiful. We simply enhanced certain features and brought your best assets forward.”

I can’t help the giggle escaping my lips when I look at myself in the mirror again. My best assets clearly refer to the cleavage spilling out of the top of my dress.

“Oh, hush,” Maria says with a playful grin. “You know what I mean. Now, go on and get into the limo waiting outside. Your Prince Charming awaits!”

I thank the team of people who managed to make me gorgeous and head out through the back door. I may be Cinderella, but I’m not sure Marco is Prince Charming. He’s way hotter.

Ten minutes later, the limo stops in front of a large historical building that appears to be decked out for a fancy event. I shuffle over to the right side of the vehicle, about to open the door when it opens by itself. Standing there, in all his muscled, olive-skinned, sharp-featured glory, is Marco.

I peer up at him, noting he has his shoulder-length hair pulled half-up, revealing more of his face. I don’t know how, but it makes him even more attractive. Marco wears a well-tailored charcoal suit with a royal blue tie that matches my dress. How does he get sexier every single time I see him? It’s not fair.

He holds out his hand to help me out of the limo. I take it, and just like the last time we shook hands, a surge of energy rushes up my arm and spreads throughout my body, making me gasp.

Marco squeezes my hand and pulls me the rest of the way out, pausing to look at my outfit. I squirm under his scrutiny, wondering what he’s thinking. His jaw tenses as his nostrils flare, and for a moment, I think he’s upset. Is it my boobs? I knew they were too much for this dress. Or maybe the crystals are too much. I’m not used to wearing anything so flashy.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, lifting my hand to his lips. Our eyes lock, his dark gaze holding me captive. He presses his lips to the back of my hand ever so gently, and I hold my breath, not wanting to ruin this intimate moment.

“And who is this?” someone asks from off to the side.

Marco straightens up and wraps an arm around my waist before addressing the man. “Grayson, how are you? I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight.” The two shake hands, though Marco keeps a secure hold on my waist, almost like he’s afraid I’m going to run away. Or is it possibly… a possessive move? It’s part of the act, you idiot, I remind myself.

“I’m glad I came,” Grayson says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at one of these fundraising events with a woman.”

“This is Imogine. My girlfriend.”

I know this is the deal and that it’s all fake, but hearing that word in reference to me has me feeling some kind of way. A shiver runs down my spine, making my toes twitch. Or maybe that’s just the four-inch heels I have on. How do people wear these things on a regular basis?

“Girlfriend, eh?” the man responds. He offers his hand to me, which I take to be polite. I swear I hear Marco growl under his breath, but I’m not sure what’s upsetting him. “Imogine. Lovely to meet you. Marco and I have worked on many contracts together over the years. You must be something special.”

I give him a smile even though it feels like I just got punched in the gut. I’m not special, however much I’d like to believe in that fantasy. I’m desperate, and so is Marco. I suppose this is what I signed up for.

I steel myself for more conversations like this as Marco leads me up the stairs to the building and through the double doors. Inside is a foyer leading to a grand ballroom with chandeliers, live orchestra music, golden decor, and an immaculate spread of food that no one is even looking at.

“Seems like such a waste, doesn’t it?” Marco whispers into my ear. His warm breath cascades over my skin, making my breath hitch in my throat.

“Wh-what?” I murmur back.

“The food,” he says in his normal voice, straightening up and gesturing toward the banquet table lining one side of the room. “I mean, there’s a goddamn chocolate fountain, and no one is even batting an eye. I’ve been to hundreds of these events over the years, and I honestly can’t remember seeing anyone eat anything.”

“I will if you will,” I offer, peering up at the man who is full of surprises. I didn’t think he’d care or notice such details.

“I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.” He gives me a sexy little smirk that makes his dark eyes gleam. Good Lord, this man is lethal.

Marco leads us to the long table filled with savory and sweet delicacies. He slips his arm from where it was anchored at my waist and grabs a plate and a cloth napkin. I teeter a bit in my shoes, still not used to being up this high and supported by a flimsy heel.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, resting a hand on the small of my back to steady me.

“Still getting used to the uniform,” I tease, trying to make myself feel less awkward. “I’ve heard beauty is pain, but these heels…” I sigh and shake my head.

“You’re in pain?” he asks, setting down the plate and focusing back on me.

“No, not really. I mean nothing awful. The shoes pinch my feet a bit, but…”

The next instant, Marco kneels in front of me, lifting my dress slightly and wrapping a hand around my left ankle. I place my hands on his shoulders to avoid tumbling over and lift my foot. He slips one shoe off and then the other, smiling when I shrink from five foot nine to my normal stature of five-five.

“There. Problem solved.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to… I mean, I’m okay,” I rush to say.

Marco stands with my high heels in hand, then signals for a server. He gives the man my shoes, along with a hundred-dollar bill. Marco doesn’t even give him instructions; he simply nods, and just like that, my shoe problem is solved.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper again.

“But you were hurting,” he replies, his brows furrowed in concern. “Are your feet cold now? Do you want another pair of more sensible shoes?” He raises his hand to signal for another waiter, but I grab his wrist and pull it back down.

“I’m fine without shoes,” I assure him. “In fact, I love being barefoot.”

His left hand curls around mine while he lifts his right hand to my face. Gently, so damn gently, he tucks a few strands of hair behind my ear. Without meaning to, I lean into his touch until he’s cradling my cheek.

The moment becomes too much. Too confusing. Too real.

“That’s settled, then. No girlfriend of mine will be in pain. End of discussion.” He drops his hand from my face and resumes his mission of gathering food on a plate.

I can tell he’s trying to cover up the surprisingly tender moment by bringing it back to our deal, which is good. That’s how it should be. Just business. Nothing else. Certainly no crushes or messy emotions.

Marco holds his arm out again for me to take, guiding us to a tall, round table where we can stand and set our food and drinks down. There’s a ridiculous mountain of snacks in front of me, ranging from mini crab cakes to chocolate-covered strawberries. I’m about to shamelessly dig in when we’re interrupted by another man, presumably a business partner.

“Marco,” he greets as he steps closer. “Oh, and who is this?”

“I’m Imogine,” I reply, taking the initiative this time. If the point of this whole evening is to mingle and show everyone we’re a couple, I should probably play a more active role.

“Imogine,” he repeats. “I-mo-gine,” the man says more slowly, annunciating every syllable. His eyes fall to my chest, and he literally licks his lips. I try not to physically recoil when he holds out his hand for me to shake.

Before I can take his outstretched hand, Marco cuts in, taking the man’s hand instead. “Mr. Sanchez,” he says, gripping the man’s hand tightly. “How is your wife ?”

Mr. Sanchez clears his throat, finally peeling his eyes from my chest. “She’s good. Fine. She’s, uh… She’s around here somewhere.”

“Better go find her then,” Marco says. His tone is more of a warning than a suggestion. The man takes the hint and excuses himself.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “Did I do something wrong? I’m not used to this kind of thing.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Marco answers, though he’s not looking at me. His gaze is pinned on Mr. Sanchez, who’s chatting up another young woman.

The evening is filled with similar encounters—men introducing themselves, looking at me, and then being sent away by Marco. This wasn’t what I had in mind when I read his note about tonight’s engagement, where we’d be making our “relationship” public. Then again, maybe it’s a mafia thing. He’s staking his claim on me and letting the other men know not to mess with the girlfriend of a Caparelli Captain.

I won’t lie; the thought of Marco being jealous over me has me blushing and wiggling my bare toes against the floor, but I know it’s just a show.

“Are you ready to–”

“Marco, there you are,” a short, stout older man says, cutting him off from whatever he was about to ask me. “I’ve been dying to meet the little snack you brought with you.”

“Oh, the snacks are actually over there,” I say, pointing to the banquet table. As soon as the words leave my lips, I want to snatch them back. He’s obviously referring to me , not the food. God, I’m so tired. I haven’t done anything except stand next to Marco and shake hands, but I’m exhausted. Clearly.

“Cute,” the older man says, his eyes flitting up and down my body. “Not who I would have pictured you with, but it’s good to mix things up every once in a while, right?”

My face is already flushed from my embarrassing comment, and now this man is picking at the one weak spot in our cover: me. I don’t belong here. I definitely don’t belong with someone like Marco.

“We were just leaving,” Marco says, tugging me along behind him. He sounds angry. He’s probably realizing this isn’t going to work and has wasted an entire evening for nothing.

His strides are much longer than mine, and I struggle to keep up. Eventually, we near the entrance, where the server from the beginning of the evening is stationed by the front door with my shoes in hand. Marco takes them and waves him off.

“I knew no one would buy that we’re a couple,” I mumble as I reach for my shoes.

Marco doesn’t give them to me; he simply drops to one knee and slides them onto my feet, reminding me again of the tainted Cinderella fairy tale crashing down around us.

“Imogine,” he says, his voice stern as he rises to his full height. “That man insulted you, and therefore, he insulted me. He’s a rude, pompous ass who is in no position to comment on anyone’s appearance, let alone the most gorgeous woman in the room. Fuck him.”

I stare up at Marco, blinking a few times as I process his words. He doesn’t give me a chance to reply, escorting me outside, down the stairs, and into another limo.

We ride in silence for a few minutes. I’m not sure what to say, what I did, or if he still wants to continue with our deal.

Finally, Marco clears his throat. “I should’ve… I mean, I didn’t think about…” He sighs and rubs a hand down his face. I’ve never seen him flustered or at a loss for words. This must be worse than I thought. “I’m sorry I put you through that.”

I tilt my head to the side, not sure I heard him correctly. “What? Isn’t that kind of the whole point of our deal?”

“Yes, but… no. Not like this. Not parading you around and subjecting you to those fuckers.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I nod slowly.

“I’m sorry,” Marco says, his dark eyes focusing on mine. It’s the first time he’s looked at me since that man came up to us. “I’ll do better.”

I open and close my mouth a few times, still not sure of what to say. What does he mean, he’ll do better?

We pull into the motel parking lot, and I shuffle toward the limo door. The driver opens it, and I slip out, looking over my shoulder at Marco. His eyes are locked on mine, a confusing mix of regret and longing shining through.

The door to the limo closes, breaking the spell. I gather up the long skirt of my ball gown and head to my room. Thankfully, my dad is already asleep. I don’t have the energy to explain why I’m in a dress that costs more than this entire motel. It’s going to take an hour just to clean off the layers of makeup and wash the gallon of hairspray out of my hair, but at least that gives me time to think about what I’ve gotten myself into.