Page 1 of Wedding Contract
Chapter One
ANNABELLE
“This is the key fob if you forget the passcode.” The older gentleman hands me a tiny stick that is barely larger than a couple of safety pins glued together. I wonder where the other residents of this high-rise keep their key fobs.
“The home is automated. The living room curtains will open at sunrise and close at sunset. Of course you can change it if you’d like.” The expression the man has on his face tells me that this is not an option I should consider.
“I’m sure it’s fine the way it’s already set.”
He nods in approval.
“The kitchen has an induction stovetop, which means you can only use stainless steel cookery on it, but no one expects you to cook. The Residences have on-call chefs. You can enter your daily food needs here through this device, and your prepared dishes will be brought to you at designated times.” Again, he sends me a sneaking glance, but this time, I disappoint him.
“I actually like cooking and baking. Mister—I mean Wick said that it was okay if I did that.” His exact words were “use anything you want. No one else will be there but you.”
At the time, those words felt like a safety blanket, but as I stand here in this way too big for one person penthouse, I’m having second and third and fourth thoughts.
Mr. Rise, who Wick told me was “the person who acts on my behalf,” frowns slightly but moves on. “You do not need to shop for groceries, take out the trash, or clean the apartment. All of these services are part of living at The Residences. You need only to?—”
“Use the app?” I interject.
He nods stiffly.
“Is there a manual? I feel like I’m wasting your time.”
“You are not. Your role is an important one, and so is discretion. If you have any questions about the use of this residence, please call me.” It isn’t a request but an order. He gives me a tight smile. “I’ll take my leave so you can settle in.”
Suddenly I’m nervous to be alone in this space with its expansive windows, high-tech automations, and butlers on demand. I’m not made for this sort of extravagance. I’m a walk up, no elevator, no doorman, cracked sidewalk, discount clothing store kind of person. “If you’re hungry, I could cook something,” I find myself suggesting.
“I had a late lunch.” He transfers his phone to his other hand and reaches into his pocket, producing a ring box.
I grimace at the sight of it even though Wick’s bullet-pointed instructions said, “Rise will have a ring for you. Wear it at all times, even in the shower. You can’t get in the habit of being without it on, so it’s best if you wear it always.”
The ring, like the apartment, is beautiful. It’s a rectangular cut, three-carat, rose-colored diamond with two smaller diamonds set on either side of the center stone. I hope it’s fake, but I’m sure it’s not. When I told Rise I didn’t want a big ring, he said he’d take that under advisement. I wonder what kind ofrock I would have gotten if I hadn’t said anything. “It’s not an heirloom, is it?”
“No. It was made for you.”
“Even worse.” I pluck it out from its velvet setting. The ring is heavy. I don’t want to put it on, but Mr. Rise is staring at me. Reluctantly, I slide the gold band over my ring finger. It fits perfectly. As I turn my hand, the light catches it and sends out rose-colored rainbows. It’s lovely, and I would be over the moon if this wasn’t all a big charade.
Having accomplished all that he set out to do, Mr. Rise bows slightly and backs away. “I’m on the second floor, if you need me.”
I rub my arms, partly because The Residences is cold and partly to keep myself from grabbing him and begging him not to leave. But I do not lunge after him, and he does leave, and soon I am by myself.
The apartment is actually beautiful and not at all what I would expect a bachelor pad to look like. It’s colorful for one. The living room has a green rug with a thick cream stripe set in from the edge about a foot. The curtains that frame the windows are a lighter shade of green. The two large sofas facing each other are cream that matches the stripe in the carpet with green piping. On the sofas are pillows, some with floral covers and some with gold and white in varying geometrics: stripes, triangles, polka dots.
The living room leads into a dining room with a circular table in rosewood. The chairs are upholstered in a floral print that matches the pillows in the living room. There’s a giant flower arrangement in the middle of the table that fills the room with a fresh spring scent. The kitchen is a mix of modern and traditional. The inset cabinets are cream on the top and a golden green on the bottom. The hood over the induction stove is a harlequin pattern of white marble and gold trim. Someonedecorated this place beautifully. I don’t think it was Wick. Nothing in his terse emails to me spoke of beauty and romance like this apartment does. But as gorgeous as this place is, I don’t think anyone has lived here. I want to ask Wick about it, but we don’t have that kind of relationship. I’m a fake. A fake wife. I have a fake marriage certificate, a fake wedding ring, and, as I stare into the primary bedroom, a fake marital bed.
Chapter Two
WICK
“Miss Annabelle is in The Residences.” Sperling Rise’s voice echoes from the speaker. I lay down the contract I was reviewing and listen intently. It’s the report I’ve been waiting for all day.
“And?” I need details.
“I showed her the automation, the chef app, the concierge services. She told me she would like to cook herself.” Rise sounds aggrieved. He chose The Residences because of its twenty-four-hour chef and butler services, and that Annabelle doesn’t appreciate them is an affront to his sensibilities.
“What does she plan to cook?” I grab my notebook and pull up her Instagram feed. She doesn’t take a lot of photographs of home-cooked meals. Her few food photographs are from the outings she had to a coffee shop near the apartment she shared with three other girls. Toast. A muffin. On rare occasions, a wrap or salad.
