Page 23

LIA

T revia was working her way through the adjusted pre-nup, while I read my “homework” under Marcus’s watchful eye.

My fiancée was the kind of dreadful it was hard to pin down on a map, because he didn’t express any of his positions too strongly.

He was anti-abortion, but fine with a meager six-week window, so he could pretend to have it both ways, in case a liberal person wanted cover to vote for him—and he was against raising taxes, but also for free school lunches—like you could have one without the other.

“It’s good to go,” Trevia murmured beside me, handing me her papers, folded open to the page I needed to sign. “Your interests in Corvo are protected, both pre and post-marital. Just don’t go and invent nuclear fission on your own, because he’d get half.”

I gave a soft snort. “Thanks for the chastity belt,” I whispered under my breath. She warmly squeezed my knee beneath the table, and then everyone was looking at me.

I just had to keep faith in Rhaim.

I closed my eyes, and wrote Lia Ferreo on my line with a flourish, along with the date—and then handed the papers over, where a waiting Marcus was ready with his own pen.

He visibly relaxed when we were through, and snapped his fingers. “Champagne!” he called out, while I pulled my water close.

“None for me. It’s too early in the day.” And also I had no reason for celebration.

“Suit yourself,” he said, then added, “in this one instance.”

Trevia stirred beside me, packing up her folio. “Lia—the car’s outside—” she said, catching my gaze, and I knew what she was doing: woman-to-woman, she was offering me an out.

Because she thought I didn’t have any other options.

But, I did.

And he was waiting for me to call him later.

I didn’t want to just complain to Rhaim—or need protection.

I wanted to be able to help him—and I wouldn’t be able to do that if I ran away with my tail between my legs.

“I’m good, and I believe I have a wedding to help plan?” I said, giving Marcus an icy but accommodating smile. “Thank you though.”

Trevia nodded—and I realized it was a long life of having to butt into places like this that’d made her wear her hair like that.

Girls like me only got invited into old boys’ clubs if our tops were coming off.

“I promise to have her home by her curfew,” Marcus said, waving her away.

Once Trevia was gone, Marcus’s lawyer left, too, but Arnold didn’t. He sat down annoyingly close me and forced me to accept twenty different calendar invites.

“First off, you’re going to our stylist this afternoon. For the next two weeks, you only wear what we tell you—and that includes hair and make-up. We’re making you blonde.”

I reared back like a startled horse. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not in the least?—”

“If you turn me into some sort of wife-bot, no one will believe me—” I said, looking to Marcus for confirmation of this fact. “Especially in my demographic.”

“A high percentage of our voting population finds blonde women comforting,” Arnold informed me.

“You mean the elderly?”

“Let her keep her hair,” Marcus said, but then nodded. “As for the rest…”

“Fine,” I snapped—then Marcus pulled out his phone, and whatever he saw on the screen irritated him far worse than my auburn hair—or anything Trevia or I had done today—which I found strange.

“Lunch is postponed. We’ll do a family dinner tomorrow instead,” he said, suddenly standing.

I couldn’t deny I felt a flash of relief—and then wondered how his own children felt about him marrying someone their age. “What, your boys don’t want to meet their new stepmother?” I asked sweetly. Marcus ignored my potshot.

“Do what Arnold tells you to do—and make sure you tell Katerina how many flowers I sent you yesterday, because I’m a hopeless romantic,” he said, before sweeping out of the room.