The dress was the color of midnight and sin.
Charlotte stared at herself in the mirror of the walk-in wardrobe, arms limp at her sides. The silk clung to her like second skin, low at the back, slit high at the side, with lace panels that whispered danger more than modesty. She looked expensive. Detached. The kind of woman who could commit tax fraud and smile through it.
She looked nothing like herself.
"Elise Hart," she whispered, testing the name on her tongue. It tasted like someone else's perfume.
The door creaked open.
She turned slightly as Asher stepped in, dressed in a sharp tux that might have been carved onto his body. The man didn't just wear suits—he weaponized them. His dark hair was combed back, his cufflinks gleaming, his cologne expensive and subtle. But his eyes... they were the same as always. Calm. Focused. Watching her like she was a file on his desk he hadn't decided what to do with yet.
"You clean up," he said, pausing just enough, "unexpectedly well."
"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or a suspicion," she replied.
"Both."
She turned back to the mirror. "This dress has no pockets. Where am I supposed to put my pepper spray?"
"You won't need it."
"You're confident."
"I have to be."
She eyed him through the reflection. "Is this gala going to be crawling with your enemies?"
"My enemies don't crawl," he said mildly. "They glide. Smile. Sip wine while calculating your net worth."
"Charming."
He stepped forward, held something out to her. A thin velvet box.
She hesitated, then opened it.
Inside sat a pair of diamond earrings, delicate and understated. Not a gift. A prop. Everything was a prop.
"These were my mother's," he said, not meeting her eyes. "She'd want them worn."
Charlotte stiffened. "I—" She started to hand them back. "Maybe this is too personal—"
"Put them on," he said, voice even.
She did.
They were light as feathers but somehow still heavy with memory.
He offered his arm, and she took it without thinking.
The elevator ride down was silent. Too silent. Her heart beat a little faster with each floor. She wasn't just walking into a party—she was stepping onto a stage.
"You ready?" he asked, voice low as the elevator dinged open.
"No," she said truthfully. "But let's do it anyway."
The gala was being hosted at the Aldwych Conservatory, a restored Edwardian building with crystal chandeliers, marble staircases, and enough fresh flowers to collapse a greenhouse. The moment they stepped from the car, flashbulbs exploded like fireworks.
Charlotte smiled.
Or at least she thought she did. She couldn't feel her face.
Asher's hand rested lightly on her lower back, guiding her through the chaos. A press handler from the event approached them instantly, ushering them toward the step-and-repeat backdrop like they were seasoned celebrities.
"You're trending already," Asher murmured near her ear.
"Fantastic," she said through clenched teeth. "All I've ever wanted. Viral fame and a fake husband."
His lips twitched. "Smile wider. There's a reporter from The London Ledger three feet to your left. She smells fear."
Charlotte did. She turned toward the reporter, tilted her head, and laughed as if Asher had just told a brilliant joke. It wasn't hard to fake. Everything tonight was fake.
But then something shifted.
They stepped inside the ballroom, and the warmth of gold light and violins washed over them. People looked. People stared. Women in couture, men in tailored power, servers moving with silent precision. And every single one of them whispered Asher Blake like it was a spell or a warning.
"This is insane," she muttered under her breath.
"Breathe. Two hours. Then we leave."
"I'm charging overtime."
He chuckled. A real one.
For some reason, it calmed her.
They made the rounds. He introduced her with ease, hand firm on her waist, voice low and possessive. Charlotte said little, smiled more, and nodded like she belonged. The script held. The performance dazzled. She was Mrs. Asher Blake for exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes before the first crack appeared.
It came in the form of a woman with red lips and sharper heels.
"Asher," she purred, sidling up to them. "You didn't tell me you got married. I would've sent flowers... or poison."
Charlotte blinked. She didn't have to ask. This woman was definitely an ex.
"Samantha," Asher said with cool politeness. "Didn't realize you were back in London."
Samantha's eyes flicked to Charlotte, taking her in like she was a questionable ingredient in a Michelin recipe. "I'm always back when something interesting happens."
Charlotte smiled sweetly. "And what a coincidence you'd find your way here. You must have great instincts for tracking down gossip."
"Among other things," Samantha said, her gaze flicking between them. "So. How long's it been?"
"Since what?" Asher asked.
"Since you met," she clarified. "You and your bride."
"Three months," he said smoothly.
Charlotte froze—but only for a second. She caught the look in Samantha's eyes. Trap. The woman already suspected something was off.
"Three passionate, tequila-fueled months," Charlotte added brightly. "We bonded over mutual trauma and a shared love for obscure 80s rock."
Samantha blinked. "...Charming."
"It was very punk-rock of us. Vegas, Elvis impersonator, hangover, legal paperwork. The whole disaster."
That drew a laugh from another couple standing nearby. Samantha's smirk slipped just enough.
Charlotte looped her arm through Asher's. "But he cleaned up nicely, didn't he? My diamond in a designer suit."
Asher glanced down at her, and for a half-second, his expression betrayed something Charlotte couldn't place. Approval? Amusement? Something warmer?
But then it was gone.
"Well," Samantha said coolly. "I'll let you two bask in your fairytale. Be sure to check Page Six tomorrow."
She walked away in a trail of red satin and fake pity.
Charlotte let out a slow breath. "Do all your exes carry murder vibes?"
"No," Asher said. "Just the ones who almost married me."
Her brows shot up. "Seriously?"
"We were engaged once," he admitted. "She preferred my money to my time."
"Yikes."
"She now runs a luxury divorce consultancy."
Charlotte snorted. "Now that's poetic."
They left the party an hour later, slipping through a side exit guarded by Asher's security. No one followed. No one shouted questions.
Inside the car, Charlotte leaned her head against the window.
"You handled that well," Asher said after a moment.
"Which part? The fake story or the verbal judo?"
"Both."
She turned her head to him. "You always this calm under pressure?"
"No. Just good at pretending."
They stared at each other for a beat too long.
Charlotte looked away first.
"I hated all of it," she said. "The stares. The fakeness. The way that Samantha woman looked at me like she was trying to X-ray my soul."
"You're not supposed to enjoy it," he replied. "You just have to survive it."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, "What happens when someone really digs? What if they find something?"
"They won't," he said. "They'd have to know where to look. And you don't exist anymore. Not legally."
She nodded slowly. "But I did. Once."
Asher didn't ask the question she saw burning in his eyes.
He didn't ask who she had been.
And she didn't volunteer.
That night, she lay awake in the guest bedroom.
The sheets were soft. The city hummed outside like a lullaby with too much caffeine. Her mind wouldn't rest. Not even with the door locked and a security system bolted tighter than Fort Knox.
She kept replaying Samantha's voice.
How long's it been?
Charlotte had answered like a woman used to lying for her life. But it had stirred something else, too—a strange flicker of fear. Not of being caught.
Of being seen.
There was something about Asher that made her forget, momentarily, that this was a performance. That she was acting. That every smile she gave him wasn't real.
Worse—there were moments when she forgot his weren't either.