Page 56 of The Marriage Clause

"I’ll have a cappuccino." She turns to Everett with familiar ease. "And he’ll have a black coffee. No sugar."

She says it with the certainty of a woman who has ordered for this man a hundred times.

I watch Everett’s face.

Nothing moves.

Margaux is watching, and maybe the fact that I spent six months learning this man's preferences helps. My job depended on it. "He takes it with a splash of cream. Not much. Just enough to soften the color. And one and a half sugars."

The table goes quiet.

Sienna’s smile tightens. "No offense, but I’ve known him for over four years. I think I know his coffee order."

I open my mouth—then close it. Because she’s right about the four years. She’s right about knowing him. She’s just wrong about the coffee.

But before I can decide whether to push it, Everett speaks.

"No," he says. His voice is even. Unhurried. "My fiancée knows how I like it."

He doesn’t look at Sienna when he says it. He looks at me. As if to tell me that he has my back. And the confirmation that I know his coffee order could literally make me cry happy tears.

The waiter nods and disappears. Sienna takes a sip of water and says nothing. Pierre and Margaux exchange a glance that I pretend not to see.

I excuse myself to the restroom before my face can betray anything else.

The bathroom is all marble and soft lighting and silence that lets me hear my own pulse.

I grip the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.

His fiancée knows how he likes it.

He chose me. In front of Sienna. In front of the client. In front of everyone.

The door opens behind me and then it opens again as Sienna steps inside. She comes up to the mirror next to me checking her reflection, and adjusts a strand of hair that was already perfect.

"You handled that well," she says, not looking at me.

I straighten. "Handled what?"

"Tonight. The Matisse’s." She turns to face me, and her expression isn’t hostile.

"I want you to know," she says, "that I’m grateful you stepped in. Really… What you’re doing for Everett… for the trust… it’s generous. Not many women would agree to something like this."

Something like this.

She says it the way you’d describe volunteer work. Noble, temporary, and ultimately someone else’s problem, but what gets me is that he told me that no friends or family can know that he and I are fake... but he told her.

"We were good together," she continues, smoothing the front of her gown. "Everett and me. Four years. We understood each other. No drama, no mess. It worked."

She pauses, and something flickers across her face—not cruelty. Nostalgia.

"I made a mistake," she says. "With Daniel... I thought if Everett saw me with someone else, it might—I don’t know. Shake something loose. Make him realize what we had." She shakes her head. "It backfired. Obviously. And then the trust deadline, and now here we are."

She steps closer. Not threatening. Just close enough that I can smell her perfume—the kind of perfume that even smells expensive.

"I’m not angry," she says. "I understand the arrangement. And once the year is up and the trust is satisfied…" She glances down at the ring on my finger—holds the look for one beat too long. "I’m sure we’ll find our way back to each other."

She looks up again. Her eyes are clear and steady and absolutely certain.