The Billionaire's Contract Wife

Chapter Nine

Pretending in Love

The Harrington Charity Gala was one of three annual events where the Lancaster name was required. Clara briefed me: black tie, nine hundred guests, minimum forty minutes of visible marital harmony.

Lucas and I arrived together, which I'd expected.

What I hadn't expected was how natural it would feel.

He guided me through the entrance with one hand at the small of my back — and I knew it was performance, I understood the function of it, I had signed a contract that described this exact gesture — but his hand was warm through the silk of my dress, and the pressure was just confident enough to feel like intention.

We were good at this. Scarily good.

He laughed at two things I said. Both times, the laugh was quiet, private, directed at me like I'd said something that had caught him off guard. The first time I thought he was performing it. The second time, I wasn't sure.

He remembered which wine I preferred and had it waiting when I returned from a conversation with the gala chair. He fielded a pointed question about our timeline with the kind of easy deflection that only works when you're genuinely relaxed, not rehearsed.

And in the third hour, when a photographer asked us to stand together for the society page, his arm came around my waist and he leaned his head just slightly toward mine — a small, private incline that looked, in the photograph, exactly like a husband who was aware of no one else in the room.

I was aware of his warmth for the rest of the evening.

The car home was quiet. The city moved past the windows.

"You're better at this than I expected," he said.

I looked at him. "At pretending?"

A pause. "At being present."

It was such a specific thing to say that I didn't have an immediate answer.

"So are you," I said finally.

He looked out the window. The city light moved over his face.

We reached the building. The car stopped. He got out first and offered me his hand — habit, or performance, or something that was beginning to blur the line between the two.

I took it.

At the penthouse door he kept hold of my hand for a moment. Not long. The lobby cameras were behind us. No reason for it except—

He let go when the door opened.

Inside, the apartment was quiet and dark except for the city below.

I stood in the entryway and counted back.

Three seconds. His hand in mine, inside a building, with no audience.

I went to my room.

I did not think about it.

I thought about it for an hour before I fell asleep.