Larissa's POV
I stood before my closet mirror, smoothing the fabric of another designer dress Carson had sent over. This one was midnight blue silk that clung to every curve, and I knew exactly why he'd chosen it. My phone buzzed with his message about tonight's restaurant location, along with his usual command to "make an impression."
I hadn't given him an answer about moving into his penthouse. The safety of my own space felt necessary, even if our arrangement was supposed to be convincing.
These past weeks had settled into a dangerous routine. Carson would select upscale venues where the paparazzi somehow always knew to find us. We'd arrive separately, meet inside, and transform into the perfect couple for any lurking cameras. His lips would find my cheek, his fingers would intertwine with mine, and his arm would claim my waist like he owned me.
