We have to be perfect, I remind myself as we sweep up the royal blue carpet and into the ballroom. Paparazzi and cameras line our route. Their cameras are little black gaping mouths, hungry for scandal. Waiting for us to fall so they can gobble us up. Or so I've been dreaming. I hope I'm not being overdramatic.
Daniel accompanies us, his dashing outfit completed by an ornate silver mask. He's coming in a capacity more than staff. Apparently he’s a member of the nobility, too. His Ghanese father was related to the Asantehene or king of the Ashanti Empire, and when he traveled to New Arcadia to broker a trade treaty, he was given a New Arcadian royal title which Daniel inherited.
Tonight Benedict is on duty as part host, so Daniel keeps me company. I watch Benedict move around the room, greeting people. Even when Daniel and I waltz, I keep turning my head to follow the duke.
He leads a lady out onto the floor to dance with, and I sigh.
Daniel tilts his head. “Do your shoes hurt?”
“No.” He knows very well I’m just tired.
“It's all right,” Daniel murmurs. “You're doing well. There’ll be the succession announcement and the coronation, and then Benedict will be busy and you can hide in the house. Eventually, you can quietly break up and fade into obscurity.”
“And start classes at the university,” I say. He nods. I watch Benedict dip his head to speak to his dance partner, a petite beauty with a fake Marilyn Monroe mole on her upper lip.
Once our pretend engagement is over, Benedict will be free to be with someone else. Date. Get engaged. Marry.
“It’ll be over before you know it,” Daniel assures me.
“Yes, I know,” I reply brightly. I should be relieved to go back to my old life. It’s not like I expected us to last. Everything we have is fake.
Daniel guides me into a series of complicated dance steps. I let him spin me around the ballroom and every time I stop, my eyes automatically search for Benedict.
At the end of the dance, there’s pity in Daniel’s eyes. “It’ll all work out, Frankie, darling,” he says. “Just don’t fall in love.”
Too late.
“Frankie,” Benedict murmurs in my ear, and I turn. I stop myself before I do anything too dramatic—like fall into his arms.
“May I have this dance?” he asks.
“Of course,” Daniel says for me, and hands me off.
Benedict and I fit closely together. His scent—crisp, with a hint of cologne—surrounds me as we swing into a classic waltz box step turn. We don’t talk and don’t look at each other. We don’t need to. Our bodies speak in perfect harmony.
By the time the song ends, my tension has melted. Benedict guides me with a hand on my back, and even that feels right.
“Benny?” a woman’s voice calls. “Benedict!”
Benedict frowns and turns slowly. I’m close enough to feel shock stiffen his body.
“Winnie,” he says in a tired voice. For a second I don’t place the name, then my head snaps around.
A buxom brunette in a small, diamond-studded mask sways up to Benedict. “It's so good to see you,” she purrs, tugging her mask down. Winnie Bennett does look like me. Pale skin, long brown hair, maybe slightly taller. Her legs and arms and midriff are much thinner, but her boobs are as big as mine, and perky in a way that make me think they were enhanced surgically. Her lips are puffier than mine, too.
She smirks at me. “I see you wasted no time replacing me, Benny dear.”
Benedict clears his throat and threads his arm around me. “This is my fiancée.”
Winnie’s eyes light with what looks like triumph. “Hello,” she says to me coolly, without taking her gaze off Benedict. “I'm sure she won't mind if I claim a dance? For old time’s sake?”
When he doesn’t immediately deny her, I frown at Benedict. Winnie is acting way more familiar with my fiancé than I would expect her to.
But Benedict’s expression is wooden, his eyes tired, and I realize it's all an act.
“Why, I don't mind at all,” I return sweetly, with a touch of the Southern accent that Grandmère would lay on thick when she was being extra polite to someone she didn’t like. “But His Grace and I were just about to go get refreshments.” I emphasize His Grace to point out her appalling lack of manners, but Winnie doesn’t seem to notice.
She pouts at us.
“Ah, there you are.” Daniel magically appears at our side like a Victorian wizard, bless him.
“May I have this dance?” he says to Winnie, and takes her arm without waiting for an answer.
“And who are you?” She wrinkles her nose up at him, then realizes how handsome he is, and flutters her eyelashes.
Crisis averted.
Benedict touches my elbow, turning me to him. I start to congratulate him but I catch sight of a familiar figure beyond him, and freeze.
“Frankie?” The man from my nightmares stands not five feet away. Even with the mask, I recognize that superior drawl. He takes off his mask, and all my breath leaves my body. It’s him. He’s still tall, blond, with a cleft in his chin. Good looking in a bland, rich sort of way. Franz is right next to him, smirking at me.
“So the rumors are true,” Chadwick says. There’s amusement lurking in the corner of his mouth. Or possibly boredom. It’s hard to tell with Chadwick Cawthorne the Fourth. Even when he was younger, his facial expressions had been frozen in a permanent smirk.
“Chadwick Cawthorne,” Franz says, sweeping a hand out to usher him forward. “Let me introduce you to my brother, His Grace, the Duke of New Arcadia.”
“We've met,” Benedict says, his tone also balanced between bored and arrogant. His hand is still on my back, so he can probably tell I’ve turned to stone.
“Yes, but have you introduced Mr. Cawthorne to your new fiancée?” Franz asks.
“Fiancée?” Chadwick’s smirk tips from condescending to aghast. “Frankie,” he drawls in his nasal voice. Probably taking lessons in how to be condescending from his dad. “I must say, I didn't expect to see you here.” He looks me up and down, still blinking, as if he’s surprised I cleaned up and put on a dress. He only ever saw me in homemade cut-off jean shorts and a tank top—my hayseed summer uniform.
I clutch the skirts of my ball gown, the satiny fabric slipping through my fingers. I'm in full makeup, with my hair up in a complicated twist, and wearing a ten thousand dollar dress. Not typical armor, but armor just the same. He can't hurt me. Chadwick did his damage a long time ago.
“You're looking well,” he says finally.
“Chadwick.” My voice comes out hoarse.
Chadwick looks down his nose at me, at Benedict, at the room in general. “Actually, it's the Honorable Chadwick Cawthorne now. My father's just become a viscount.” He inclines his head to the right, directing my gaze to the tableau behind him. A tableau straight from my nightmares.
His whole family is here, standing in a cluster, with Chad’s parents in the middle. They stood in the same formation on that horrible summer afternoon I met them when I was seventeen. The first and last time I saw them. All the Cawthornes—from the snooty youngest to the eldest, pinch-faced Grand Dame—present for my humiliation.