The Billionaire's Contract Wife

Chapter Five The Perfect Wife The Lancaster family dinner was held in a townhouse that cost more than most countries' foreign reserves. I arrived in a dress I'd designed myself — deep burgundy silk, structured shoulders, a neckline that suggested confidence without begging for attention. I'd been briefed by Clara: Lancaster's mother had passed away years ago. His father, Richard, had remarried. Two board members and their wives. A handful of inner circle. And Vanessa Blackwood. I'd known she would be there. I hadn't known she would position herself at the door. She was beautiful in the way that expensive things are beautiful — deliberate, maintained, designed to provoke. She extended her hand with a smile that reached nowhere near her eyes. "Sophia. What a surprise this all was." "For me too," I said pleasantly, and shook her hand. She didn't move to let me pass. "We've all been wondering — how does it feel? To marry someone who didn't choose you for love?" The room wasn't silent. But it was listening. I looked at her for a long moment. Kept my face exactly as it was. "The same way it feels," I said, "for every woman in this room, I imagine." I smiled. "Now, if you'll excuse me." I moved past her. Kept my spine straight. Kept my hands still. Don't count tiles, I told myself. Walk. Dinner was a performance I was reasonably good at. I'd grown up in this world, or near enough to it. I knew which fork and which laugh and which silence. I spoke when spoken to and deflected the pointed questions with the precision of someone who has designed armor for a living. But by the second course I felt it — the low, constant pressure of a room testing whether I belonged. Then my phone, on silent in my bag, buzzed three times. I excused myself to the hallway. Lucas. I answered. "How is it going." Not quite a question. "Fine." I kept my voice steady. "How did you—" "James is there. He sends updates." A pause. "Vanessa." "Handled." A beat of silence. "Go back in," he said. "Put me on speaker." "Lucas, that's not—" "Sophia. Speaker." I walked back to the table, phone in hand. Every eye tracked me. "Forgive me," I said, taking my seat. "My husband wanted to say hello." I set the phone on the table. His voice came through, clear and cool, filling the room the way his presence would have. "Richard. Caroline. I'm sorry to miss the evening." A pause that felt deliberate. "Please make my wife comfortable. She is the most capable person in that room." He hung up. The table was very quiet for a moment. Richard Lancaster — silver-haired, appraising — looked at me with something that was almost respect. "He doesn't call from London for nothing," he said. "No," I agreed. "He doesn't." I picked up my fork. Across the table, Vanessa Blackwood's smile had gone rigid at the edges. I didn't allow myself to feel anything about that. Almost.