Page 42 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

I tighten my arms around her. “You okay?” I murmur.

She nods slowly. “Yeah. Just… adjusting.”

“To what?”

She hesitates. “To being wanted.”

That shatters me in ways I can’t even fathom. I don’t say anything because my heart hurts for her, so I do the only thing that I can. I hold her tighter, like maybe if I never let go, she’ll stop questioning whether she deserves this.

Because I know she does.

And if she can’t see it yet, I’ll keep showing her—every night, every breath, every slow, and reverent touch, until she does.

17

KATE

PORCH LIGHTS AND PLAYOFFS

“You’re usedto bright lights and everyone knowing your name….” Kate Riggs

I wake up like Cinderella—only I didn’t lose a shoe.

I stayed in a castle that sparkles. I woke up in a bed I have no business being in, and tangled up with a man who makes me feel like I was always meant to belong here. And for one perfect moment, I let myself believe I do.

The morning light spills in golden and soft, like even the sun doesn’t want to disturb what we shared last night. The room smells like him—cedar, heat, something expensive and male—and my body aches in the best way.

I stretch slowly, biting back a grin. My hair’s a mess, my skin still glowing, and somewhere deep in my chest, a dangerous warmth stirs.

I slip out of bed, still wearing his shirt, and pad barefoot down the long hall, every step echoing a little louder than it should. This house still feels too big and too perfect. But this morning, it feels a little more familiar.

I make my way to the kitchen.

There’s a mug waiting for me. Coffee is already brewed. A quiet gesture that shouldn’t feel like a promise—but it does.

I wrap my fingers around the handle of the mug that says, “Stanley Cup Champions,” and slowly pour hot coffee into it. When I sip, I close my eyes, letting the warmth hit my chest. He made this for me intentionally. It’s oddly endearing. As if I’m not just passing through, but I’m a fixture in his life.

I find a note on the kitchen counter in Finn’s messy handwriting:Stylist will be here by 11. Big dinner tonight. Wear something that’ll make me stare. Dresses are in the guest room. Pick one or keep them all. I want you to be the storm.

Today’s the gala—the event Finn mentioned when we first made this arrangement. I’m supposed to smile, pose, play the part of the stunning new wife with a glamorous dress and a flawless façade.

But right now, I’m standing in his kitchen, in his shirt, drinking his coffee.

And it doesn’t feel like pretend.

It feels like something I could get used to. And I wonder why I think it’s terrible. I finish my coffee on the patio, taking in the greenery. After another cup of Joe, I look at my phone and realize I need to get ready for the stylist.

I had a makeup artist in Vegas, but not one for my other gigs. I’m excited about the possibility, as if a specialist can transform me into someone who truly belongs in this world.

When I head back upstairs, I make my way past numerous rooms until I find the one with a full clothing rack parked in it.

Arack—ofgowns. Designer. Each is more exquisite than the last. Some are draped in tulle, silk, and sequins. There are no tags on them. There is enough fabric to clothe a royal court.

Dresses made by designers that looked like they belonged on magazine covers, not on a girl who grew up making prom dresses out of clearance fabric and hope.

A little card sits on the bed:For the gala tonight. Pick the one that makes you feel like the queen you are. —F.

I laugh, just once. Because what else do you do when someone turns your morning into a private runway show?