Chapter 7 A Beautiful Prison
I barely sleep that night.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Caius's mother. Her threat plays on repeat in my head throughout.
I toss and turn in the massive guest bed. The room is beautiful. It's the kind of room I used to dream about as a little girl. The kind of room I'd sketch in my notebooks during boring classes, imagining what it would be like to live somewhere like this.
But right now, it feels like a prison.
Around three AM, I finally drift off, but my sleep is restless. My mind keeps wandering, pulling up worst-case scenarios.
What if Leo doesn't speak tomorrow? What if he does speak, but the social worker doesn't believe it's real? What if I say something wrong, do something wrong, am something wrong?
What if I fail?
By seven thirty, there's a knock on my door. I open and it s a woman. She wheels in a massive garment rack, and my eyes widen. There must be at least fifteen outfits hanging there.
"Mrs. Michaels's stylist sent these over," she says with a small smile. "She said to try them all on and select what feels right."
"Thank you," I murmur.
She nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.
I stand there for a moment, just staring at the clothes.
Then I get to work.
I try on outfit after outfit, studying myself in the full-length mirror until I finally settle on one that I feel is right.
It's seven fifty-eight now. Two minutes until eight.
My heart is hammering against my ribs as I wait, wondering if Mrs. Michaels will actually show up.
Then, at exactly eight o'clock, there's a knock on my door.
I take a deep breath, smoothing down my dress and walk to the door.
When I open it, Caius is standing there.
Not his mother. But him.
For a moment, I'm so surprised I just stare.
He's dressed differently than I've ever seen him. At the office, he's always in sharp, expensive suits. Polished shoes.
But right now, he's wearing dark jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. He looks tired, I realize. There are shadows under his eyes that weren't there yesterday.
Did he sleep as poorly as I did?
"Good morning, sir," I say automatically, stepping aside to let him in.
He steps into the room, then pauses, turning to look at me.
"Lia," he says, gently. "You can't call me 'sir' anymore."
I blink. "What?"
"The social worker will be here in two hours," he says. "If you call me 'sir' in front of her, this whole thing falls apart immediately. We need to seem natural together. Like we're actually married."
Oh.
Oh God, he's right.
Heat floods my face. "I didn't think... I'm sorry, I just—"
"It's fine," he says, cutting off my rambling. "That's why I'm here. We need to practice."
"Practice?"
"Being married." He says. "My mother was supposed to come up and drill you this morning, but I convinced her to let me handle it instead."
I'm not sure if that's better or worse. On one hand, his mother terrifies me. On the other hand, practicing being married to my boss might be even more terrifying in a completely different way.
"Okay," I say slowly. "What do we need to practice?"
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him thinking.
"Everything," he finally says. "How we talk to each other. How we stand together. Our story... how we met, when we fell in love, all of it. The social worker will ask questions, and our answers need to match." He pauses. "She'll be looking for inconsistencies. Any sign that this isn't real."
"And if she finds them?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Then we lose Leo," he says simply.
There's silence for a moment, then he steps closer to me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to look up at him.
"Let's start with the basics," he says. "First, stop calling me 'sir.' Use my name. Caius."
"Caius," I repeat, and the name feels strange saying it.
I've called him Mr. Michael for two years. 'Sir, when I'm being extra professional. Never Caius. Never just his first name like we're equals.
"Good," he nods. "Again."
"Caius," I say, trying to make it sound natural.
"Better." He nods. "And I'll call you Lia. Not Miss Sterling. Just Lia."
"Okay."
"Second..." He hesitates. "We need to be comfortable with physical contact. Not anything inappropriate," he adds quickly, "but married couples touch each other casually without thinking about it."
My heart rate spikes.
"What kind of touching?" I ask.
"Simple things," he says. "A hand on your back. Sitting close together on the couch. Maybe holding hands."
The idea makes my palms sweat.
"We can practice that," I say.
He nods, but he doesn't move to touch me yet. Instead, he walks over to the window, looking out at the gardens.
"The social worker's name is Catherine Gerald," he says, shifting into business mode. "She's been assigned to Leo's case for the past three months. She's thorough and really keptical. She doesn't miss anything."
"Great," I mutter. "No pressure."
He turns back to me, and there's something almost apologetic in his expression.
"I know this is a lot," he says. "I know what my mother said to you last night was... harsh."
Harsh. That's one word for it.
"She meant it," I say.
"Every word," he confirms. "My mother doesn't make idle threats."
"I figured."
We stand there in silence for a moment.
"Can I ask you something?" I say suddenly.
He nods. "Of course."
"Why me?" The question has been burning in my mind since yesterday. "You could have hired anyone. An actress, maybe. Someone trained to play a part like this. Why your assistant?"
"I already explained it's because Leo spoke to you," he says. "That's not something you can train for or even fake. Whatever you did, whatever you are, it reached him when nothing else could. That's worth more than any performance anyone could put up."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard.
"But what if it was just a fluke?" I ask. "What if he doesn't speak again? What if yesterday was just... random?"
"Then we'll deal with it," he says. "But I don't think it was random, Lia. I've spent seven months watching my nephew retreat further and further into silence. Seven months of experts telling me to be patient, that he'll talk when he's ready." His jaw tightens. "You were with him for few minutes, and he called you Mummy."
"I don't know why it happened," he continues. "I don't know what you did or said or how you made him feel safe enough to speak. But it happened. And right now, that's the only hope I have of keeping Leo."
"I'll do my best," I say quietly but sincerely. "I promise."
"I know you will." He takes a breath, and I watch him pull himself back together, pushing the emotion down. "Which is why we need to make sure you're prepared. So let's start with our story. How did we meet?"
"At work," I say. "I've been your assistant for eight months."
"Right. But we need to explain when it became... more." He looks uncomfortable. "When did we start dating?"
I think about it. "Maybe three months ago? That gives us enough time to have fallen in love"
He nods slowly. "Three months. We kept it quiet because of company policy about workplace relationships."
"And because you wanted to keep your personal life private," I add. "That's in character for you."
"Good." He says, approving. "We got married two weeks ago. A quick and simple ceremony. Just us and a witness."
"Why so quick?" I ask, confused now.
"Because of the court hearing," he says. "Once I knew what they were demanding, I didn't want to waste time. And you agreed because..." He trails off, looking at me expectantly.
"Because I love Leo," I say, letting the lies flow. "Because I've gotten to know him through you, and I want to help give him a stable home."
"Exactly." He says. "Catherine will probably ask about your family. Your background."
My stomach clenches.
"What did you tell her already?" I ask.
"Tell her?" He raises a brow, amused at my question. "Nothing. What should I know? In case she asks?"
I swallow hard. This is the part I've been dreading.
"My father died when I was twelve," I say. "Car accident. My mother raised me alone. She worked as a nurse." I pause. "She's sick now. Cancer."
His expression softens. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," I say, even though it's not fine. It will never be fine. "She's getting treatment. Experimental therapy."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. He's smart enough to put the pieces together. Why I need the money, why I agreed to this arrangement.
But he doesn't say anything about it. Just nods.
"Anything else?" he asks.
"I went to state school. Graduated with a degree in business administration. No siblings. No other family to speak of." I shrug. "Pretty boring, really."
"Noted," he replies.
And just then, his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen and answers it.
"Yes?" He pauses. "Already? Okay. Thank you."
He ends the call and looks at me, his expression more serious now.
"The marriage contract is here," he says. "We need to sign it now."