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I rolled my eyes as I walked to the large dresser that was designated for my workout gear.

There was a binder on top, and it was open to a page spotlighting a blush pink workout ensemble that my personal dresser had designated for today’s exercise session. I carried the notebook across the closet.

Closet was an understatement in every way. The room that held my rich wife wardrobe was twice the size of my last apartment.

My stylist was organized to a fault, which made getting dressed simple but in the most complicated way.

I had to follow the numbers she’d typed next to each piece of clothing to its matching rack.

The top was a tiny, strappy pale pink sports bra that was numbered with a 67. I went to the bra section of the room and nabbed it off a hanger.

I set the binder down on the nearest surface, slipped off my robe, and pulled the skimpy top over my head.

When it was fastened I moved on to don nude thong panties, then skintight, stretchy burgundy leggings.

Even my shoes and socks matched. I thought about complaining when I saw that the maroon running shoes that’d been picked out for me had a hidden wedge in them, (because who worked out in heels?) but I decided it wasn’t worth it. If I was going to throw a fit about something, it wasn’t going to be shoes.

A trip to the gym took minimum prep, even for me, but I still took care with my appearance, treating it like another type of photo shoot. Just another part of the job.

I arranged my thick, streaky blonde hair into a practiced messy topknot, then moved onto makeup. I applied it lightly, going for natural with a rosy glow.

I had just finished applying nude lip-gloss when I heard my name being called.

“Yes?” I called back.

“Ready, Duchess?” Chester asked, voice pitched to be heard across the apartment.

“Always,” I replied, grabbing my workout bag and heading for the door.

CHAPTER

FIVE

Just a few days after the wedding I’d seen the wedding photos.

I found them in magazines. Several spreads had been set up in advance across varying publications.

No one had bothered to show them to me. I had to troll the internet for them just like everyone else.

They were breathtaking. The photographer was talented, the setting was sublime, and we were very convincing—the gorgeous billionaire madly in love with his fresh, barely legal model bride.

Snapshots of what must have been a perfect day; it had all been immortalized for the world to see.

Us kissing at the altar. That brief, obligatory pressing of lips looked like so much more. Our romantic stroll out of the church and through the gardens, the sun on our smiling faces. His mother kissing my cheek with affection. His father putting his arm around me, welcoming me to the family.

Me huddled with four bridesmaids I only knew on paper.

Him laughing with his groomsmen like it was the happiest day of his life.

Another kiss set amongst white flowers, another brief, perfunctory contact frozen into a hopelessly romantic moment in time.

So many flawless snapshots of a spectacularly gorgeous lie. And God were they convincing.

I spent hours looking at them all. Days probably.

The photographer even captured the moment when Calder had me try my first taste of champagne and bourbon, my new husband smiling at me fondly. Oh how charming it all looked.

The shots of our first dance did indeed end up in the paper. I looked flushed and nervous and like I couldn’t take my adoring eyes off him. He looked like he wanted to devour me whole.