Chapter 14 The Performance Begins
Ariella took the bus to the Frost mansion alone. Her mother had wanted to drive her, but they still didn’t have a working car, and paying for a taxi felt absurd when the bus ran every twenty minutes. Ariella sat in the back, wearing her best jeans and a sweater that only had one small hole near the hem, and watched the city roll past.
Normal people doing normal things. Going to work, running errands, living lives that didn’t involve learning how to lie to the press about a fake marriage.
The bus driver gave her that same look when she got off at the bottom of the hill.
“You sure, kid?”
“Unfortunately.”
She walked up the winding road, and with each step, the weight on her chest got heavier. By the time she reached the gates, she could barely breathe.
She pressed the intercom button.
“Miss Hayes.” Not Richard’s voice this time. A woman’s…professional, crisp. “Please come in. Mr. Frost and Ms. Song are waiting in the conservatory.”
The gates opened.
Ariella walked up the long driveway, past the perfectly manicured gardens, toward the glass palace that was about to become her prison.
The front door opened before she reached it.
Aiden stood there, and he looked worse than he had yesterday. Like he hadn’t slept at all. Dark circles, rumpled clothes, hair sticking up like he’d been running his hands through it obsessively.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
They stood there awkwardly, neither quite sure what to say.
“You came,” Aiden said finally.
“I signed a contract.”
“You could have changed your mind.”
“Could I?” Ariella asked quietly.
Aiden’s face did something complicated. “No. Probably not.”
“Then I came because I had to. Not because I wanted to.”
“That’s fair.” He stepped back, letting her inside. “Patricia’s here. She’s… intense. But she means well.”
“Everyone around your father seems to mean well while doing terrible things.”
“Yeah.” Aiden shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s kind of the Frost family specialty.”
He led her through the mansion past the entryway, down a hallway she hadn’t seen before, toward the back of the house. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see what must be the conservatory: a glass structure filled with plants, natural light, and wicker furniture that probably cost more than a semester of college.
Richard Frost sat in one of the chairs, looking frailer than he had two days ago. Across from him sat a woman in her forties Asian, impeccably dressed in a sharp black suit, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She radiated competence and control.
She stood when Ariella entered.
“Miss Hayes. Patricia Song.” Her handshake was firm, her gaze assessing. “Thank you for coming.”
“I don’t think I had much of a choice.”
Patricia’s lips quivered slightly. “Honesty. Good. We’ll need that.” She gestured to a chair. “Sit. We have a lot to cover and not much time.”
Ariella sat. Aiden took the chair beside her without being asked. She was grateful for that; for the solidarity, even if it was just physical proximity.
“Let’s start with the basics,” Patricia said, pulling out a tablet. “The public announcement of your engagement will happen in one week. We’ll release it through a carefully crafted press statement, accompanied by photographs. The narrative is important. Are you following?”
“I think so.”
“The story we’re telling is this: You and Aiden met at a charity event three months ago. You bonded over a shared love of architecture and baking, complementary passions. You’ve been dating quietly, privately, away from the public eye. The engagement is recent but sincere. You’re young, in love, and excited to start your life together.”
Each word felt like a small death.
“None of that is true,” Ariella said.
“None of it has to be true. It just has to be believable.” Patricia leaned forward. “The media will try to poke holes in your story. They’ll look for inconsistencies. They’ll ask invasive questions. Your job is to stay calm, stay consistent, and redirect when necessary.”
“How do I redirect?”
“By controlling the narrative. By giving them the story you want them to tell, not the story they want to find.” Patricia pulled up something on her tablet. “Let’s practice. I’ll ask questions. You answer. Aiden, you’re here to support but also to observe. Learn from her mistakes.”
“Gee, thanks,” Aiden muttered.
Patricia ignored him. “Miss Hayes, how did you and Aiden meet?”
Ariella’s mind went blank. “We… at a…”
“Breathe. Think. What’s the story?”
“Charity event. Three months ago.”
“Which charity event?”
Ariella looked at Richard helplessly.
“The Children’s Hospital Gala,” he supplied. “February 14th.”
“Valentine’s Day,” Patricia said. “Romantic. Good. Try again. How did you meet?”
“At the Children’s Hospital Gala in February. On Valentine’s Day.”
“And what drew you to each other?”
“We…” Ariella looked at Aiden. He looked equally lost. “We talked about…”
“Architecture and baking,” Patricia prompted. “You were discussing the building’s design. Aiden was there with his father. You were there with your mother, she’d purchased a table to support the hospital. You struck up a conversation. He found your passion for traditional baking techniques fascinating. You found his knowledge of structural design compelling. By the end of the night, he’d asked for your number.”
It sounded so simple when Patricia said it. So believable.
So completely false.
“But my mother didn’t buy a table,” Ariella said. “We couldn’t afford that. We can barely afford groceries.”
“The public doesn’t know that. And by the time anyone thinks to check, we’ll have created a paper trail showing a donation from Hayes & Daughter Bakery to the Children’s Hospital. We’ll backdate it. Make it real, retroactively.”
“That’s fraud.”
“That’s storytelling.” Patricia’s voice was firm but not unkind. “Miss Hayes, I understand this is uncomfortable. But the alternative is the truth that you’re a teenager who married a stranger for money because your family was facing eviction. Do you want that story in the papers?”
Ariella’s stomach turned. “No.”
“Then we create a better story. One that protects you both.” Patricia looked at Aiden. “Your turn. Why did you propose so quickly? Three months is fast, even for young love.”
Aiden sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Because when you know, you know?”
“Too cliché. Try again.”
“Because my father is dying and I wanted him to see me happy before he goes?”
“Too honest. Try again.”
Aiden’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to sell it. Make me believe you love her.” Patricia’s voice softened slightly. “Aiden, I know this is difficult. But the media will be vicious if they sense weakness. They’ll tear apart any inconsistency. So you need to find something true, some kernel of genuine feeling and build from that.”
“I barely know her.”
“Then get to know her. You have one week before the announcement. Use it.” Patricia turned to Richard. “They need time together. Real-time. Not choreographed, not supervised. They need to build a foundation that will hold up under scrutiny.”