Blind Devotion

Chapter 3

I don't sleep.

Can't. Every time I close my eyes I hear his voice. *I think you're tired of surviving.*

The apartment feels smaller. Like the walls moved closer while I was gone. Or maybe I just see it differently now. The water stain on the ceiling. The crack in the corner that's been spreading for months. The window that doesn't close all the way.

Temporary. All of it.

I gave up trying to sleep around four. Made instant coffee with the last packet. No milk. No sugar. I ran out of both last week.

The hospital letter is still in the drawer. I took it out at some point. Don't remember when. It's on the table now next to the empty mug.

*We regret to inform you...*

I don't read past the first line. Never do.

Six a.m. Four hours until I have to leave. Three if I walk again.

The blazer is draped over the chair. I found a needle and thread in the bathroom drawer. Fixed the button. Took me twenty minutes because my hands kept shaking. The zipper on the pants is still broken but the safety pin held yesterday. I have two more. One will work.

It has to work.

My phone is at eleven percent battery. The charger broke last month and I haven't replaced it. Haven't needed to. No one calls. No one texts except automated reminders about bills I can't pay.

I plug it in anyway. Watch the percentage creep up.

Seven percent.

Eight.

There's a voicemail from the landlord. I don't listen to it. I know what it says.

Nine percent.

The woman across the hall is fighting with someone. Her voice carries through the walls. Same fight as always. Something about money. Something about trust. The man's voice is lower. I can't make out words.

A door slams.

Silence.

Ten percent.

I should eat something. The peanut butter jar is in the cabinet but I can't. My stomach is twisted too tight. The coffee was a mistake. I can feel it burning.

At eight I shower. Let the water run longer than I should. It's not my water bill anymore. Won't be my problem in—

I don't know how many hours. Lost count.

The mirror is fogged. I wipe it with my hand. Stare at my reflection.

Unwashed hair is one thing. Clean hair that's still damaged from box dye I did myself six months ago is another. I pull it back. Smooth it down. It'll have to be enough.

The concealer I have left is mostly dried out. I dab some under my eyes. Blend it with my finger. It doesn't hide much but it's something.

Eight forty-five.

I get dressed. The safety pin holds. The button I sewed is crooked but secure. The blazer covers most of my mistakes.

My reflection looks almost professional. Almost like someone who belongs in a building on Park Avenue.

Almost.

Nine o'clock.

I should leave. It'll take forty minutes if I walk fast. Thirty-five if I don't stop.

I stand in the doorway. Look back at the apartment one more time.

Temporary.

The door locks behind me with a sound that feels final.

---

The doorman recognizes me. Nods without checking his tablet this time.

"Sixty-eighth floor."

"Yes ma'am."

Ma'am. Like I'm someone who matters.

The elevator is empty. I watch the numbers climb. Try to count my breathing again but lose track around the fortieth floor.

The doors open.

Same black door. Same brass plate.

I knock this time. Three times. Firm.

Alexis answers immediately. Like she was waiting.

"Vivienne. Come in."

She's dressed differently today. Still professional but softer somehow. A sweater instead of the blazer. She looks tired.

"Coffee?" she offers.

"Please."

She disappears into a kitchen I didn't see yesterday. Comes back with a mug. Real coffee. The kind that smells expensive.

I wrap my hands around it. The heat helps.

"He's in a meeting. Should be done soon." Alexis sits across from me. Studying my face. "You came back."

"You asked me to."

"I asked. I didn't think you would."

"Why not?"

She's quiet for a moment. "Most people don't. He has a way of—" She stops. Starts again. "He says things that sound cruel because he doesn't know how else to say them. But he's not cruel. Not really."

"You've known him a long time."

"Ten years. Since he took over the company." She takes a breath. "I need you to understand something before you talk to him. What he's going to ask you—it's not what you think. It's not some arrangement where you're being used. He needs help. Real help. He just won't say it that way."

"What does he need?"

"That's for him to tell you." She stands. "But Vivienne. Whatever you decide—it's your choice. No pressure. No games. He won't manipulate you into saying yes."

Before I can ask what that means, the door opens.

Dominic appears. Same suit. Same unreadable expression. Same way of moving through space like he owns it.

"Ms. Cross. You came."

"You asked me to."

"I gave you an option. There's a difference." He gestures toward the room he emerged from. "Shall we?"

I follow him. Alexis doesn't.

The room is an office. Massive desk. More windows. Books lining one wall. Real books with worn spines. Not for show.

He sits behind the desk. I take the chair across from him.

"You didn't sleep last night."

It's not a question but I answer anyway. "No."

"You're frightened."

"Yes."

"Good. You should be." He folds his hands on the desk. "What I'm about to propose will change your life completely. If you say yes, nothing will be the same. If you say no, you walk away and we never speak again."

"Okay."

"I need a wife."

The words sit between us. Heavy. Impossible.

"Excuse me?"

"Not a real wife. A contractual one. An arrangement that benefits both of us."

I should stand up. Should leave. Should—

"Why?"

"My board of directors believes a married man is more stable. More trustworthy. They're using my personal life as leverage against business decisions." His jaw tightens slightly. First sign of emotion I've seen. "I refuse to let them control me that way. But I also refuse to lose my company."

"So you want to—what? Hire someone to pretend?"

"Not someone. You."

"You don't know me."

"I know enough. You're intelligent. Desperate. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You're also capable of discretion—you've kept silent about Dorian Castellane for three years despite having every reason to destroy him publicly."

"I couldn't afford—"

"You couldn't afford lawyers. I know. That changes today if you agree to my terms."

My hands are shaking. I set down the coffee mug before I spill it.

"What are the terms? Specifically."

He tilts his head slightly. Like he's pleased I asked. "One year. Minimum. You move into my penthouse. We attend public events together as a married couple. You play the role convincingly." He pauses. "In return, you receive a monthly salary of fifty thousand dollars. Full medical benefits. A legal team to clear your name and pursue action against Castellane if you choose. After one year, we reassess. If either party wishes to end the arrangement, we divorce quietly."

Fifty thousand. Monthly.

The number doesn't make sense.

"What about—" I stop. Make myself continue. "What would you expect? Day to day."

"Public appearances. Maintaining the fiction that we're happily married. Beyond that, you're free to do as you please."

"That's vague."

"Intentionally." He leans back slightly. "I don't need you to cook my meals or warm my bed, if that's what you're asking. I have staff for the former. I have no interest in the latter."

The bluntness should sting. It doesn't. It's almost a relief.

"So this is just—"

"Professional. Yes." His voice is flat. "I'm not looking for companionship, Ms. Cross. I'm looking for someone who can play a role. Nothing more."

I stand up. Pace to the window. The city stretches out below. All those people living normal lives. Going to normal jobs. Having normal problems.

"Why me?" I turn back to face him. "You could hire anyone. Someone with a better reputation. Someone who doesn't come with baggage."

"I don't want someone without baggage. I want someone who understands that this is a transaction. Nothing more." His voice is clinical. "Someone who won't confuse the arrangement with reality. Who won't expect me to actually care."

The cruelty of it hits like cold water.

"You want someone broken enough not to expect love."

"I want someone smart enough to know that love is a fairy tale people tell themselves to justify their poor decisions." He stands. Walks toward me with that same impossible confidence. Stops three feet away. "I'm blind, Ms. Cross. I'm not nice. I'm not looking for emotional connection. I need a business partner who can play a role convincingly. That's all this is."

"And if I say no?"

"Then you leave. Find somewhere to sleep tonight. Keep fighting a battle you've already lost against a man with infinite resources." He tilts his head. Listening. "Your heart rate is elevated. You're terrified. But you haven't said no."

"I need—I need time to think."

"You have until I finish counting to ten." His voice doesn't change. Still that same controlled calm. "One."

"You can't be serious."

"Two."

My throat closes.

"This is insane."

"Three."

"You're asking me to marry you. To live with you. To—"

"Four."

Fifty thousand a month. Legal help. A place to live.

"Five."

Dorian's face. Isla's ring. The hospital letter on my kitchen table.

"Six."

I gave her my sweater.

"Seven."

The eviction notice. Pink.

"Eight."

*You're tired of surviving.*

"Wait." The word comes out sharp. He stops. "If I agree—if—I need something else."

His expression doesn't change. "Go on."

"Full access to the legal team. Not just to clear my name. I want to go after him. Dorian. I want everything he took from me."

A pause. Then: "Agreed."

"And I want my own room. My own space. I'm not—we're not—"

"I already said I have no interest in sharing a bed. You'll have your own suite."

"And after the year. If I want out. No penalties. No—"

"None. The contract ends. You leave with everything I promised." He tilts his head again. "Are we negotiating or are you stalling?"

Both. Neither. I don't know.

"Nine."

My voice is steadier than I feel. "Yes."

He stops. "Yes?"

"Yes. I'll do it."

Something crosses his face. Too fast to read. Relief maybe. Or satisfaction. "You understand the terms?"

"One year minimum. Fifty thousand monthly. Public appearances as your wife. Legal support. My own space. Option to end it after the year."

"And you agree? Fully?"

The apartment flashes through my mind. The pink notice. The drawer full of papers I can't pay. The hospital letter I can't read.

"I agree."

"Good." He extends his hand. "We have a deal, Mrs. Ashford."

I stare at his hand. At the future it represents.

Then I take it.

His grip is firm. Warm. Real.

And I can't tell if I just saved my life or sold it.

"Welcome to your new life, Vivienne."