MR. LECLER
I let Malia rest her hand on my arm as we walk toward the party taking place in the garden.
— Is what you said true? she asks me.
— I would never lie about that, Malia. Once you become Mrs. Lecler, no one will deny you custody of your daughter. I'm being sincere; no one would dare—unless they wanted to cross me.
— And all I have to do is marry you? she asks.
— That's it, Malia. I won't demand much from you. Just be my wife in the eyes of the world—and, if you wish, my friend when we're alone. You'll be able to raise your daughter and give her a good life.
— And how long will we stay married?
I smile. — As long as necessary. I don't know yet. I need to achieve something first, and once that's done, we'll see where things go from there.
She nods, and we continue walking in silence. I can see the questions swirling in her head. I know that if she agrees to this, it will be for her daughter, not for the money I'm offering.
When we reach the garden doors, the only thing standing between us and the party, Malia stops and looks at me.
— And what about... She trails off, her face flushing crimson. — I mean, it's a fake marriage, but you... I... damn it. She looks nervous, and I know exactly what she's trying to ask.
— Malia. I take her by the arms, turning her fully toward me. — Even if this isn't a traditional marriage, it's still a marriage. When I stand at that altar and say my vows, I intend to keep them. I will be faithful to you, and I will respect you—and that includes not touching you.
I see her breathe a sigh of relief.
— Not without your permission, I add with a smirk.
Malia is beautiful—the kind of woman most men dream of—and in that red dress my secretary sent over, she's irresistible. But as I said, I won't touch her. Not without her clear consent.
— Let's go, I say, offering my arm. — I'm going to introduce you as my girlfriend. Despite everything, I haven't officially proposed yet.
Malia nods and takes my arm.
— If anyone asks when we met, tell them the truth: at an interview. Just don't specify when. For the rest, say whatever you like; I'll agree with everything. I look at her. — And Malia? Can you manage to look like you're in love?
Confusion flashes in her eyes for a moment before they brighten, and she smiles.
— I once thought about being an actress. Let's see how I do. She smiles and presses her body closer to mine.
Now, we actually look like a couple.
I check to see if she's ready, then open the door and lead us into the garden. Music plays, and waiters circulate with drinks. The moment we step outside, our presence is noticed. Dozens of eyes fall on us. I feel Malia hesitate, her grip on my arm tightening. I know she wouldn't accept any of this if I hadn't brought her daughter into it, but I have my reasons—and right now, Malia just wants her child back.
I scan the crowd—frivolous people who are only here for the money, the status, or the favors. Being forced to attend these parties is a chore; hosting them is a nightmare, especially when it's in my own home and there's no escape.
I take Malia's hand and give it a gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance that everything is fine. We begin to walk. I greet those closest to us, and Malia smiles and speaks to everyone with remarkable grace. Any sign of her earlier nerves has vanished behind a wide smile. It's fake, but beautiful nonetheless.
As we move away from a circle of businessmen, we head toward a table, and drinks are served.
— I think you might have a problem, Malia says, looking into the bottom of her now-empty glass.
— What is it? I try to think of anything she might have said or done wrong, but nothing comes to mind.
— Near the bar... those two women. She glances in their direction. — I interviewed with them a while ago. They know about my past. She lowers her head.
I breathe a sigh of relief. This is difficult for me, too. Anything that goes wrong could ruin my plan.
— Malia, do you really think that if I were ashamed of you or your past, I would have proposed this? I ask. — Because that's what it is. Even if it's what I need—and what you need to get your daughter back—it's still nonsense.
It's a massive mistake, really, but I couldn't think of a better way.
— Let them know. Let them talk, I say, flashing a wide smile. — The more they focus on you, the more we'll show them it doesn't matter, right?
Malia watches me, silent. She's good at lying, despite being so sincere. Her eyes don't betray her thoughts. I know about her past, and I know something isn't right. I had a full background check run on her, and shortly before her interview, a thick dossier was delivered to me.
— Are you telling me you won't be embarrassed? Is that it?
— Exactly.
— Then let me do something, she says, a wide smile breaking across her face.
She slips her arms inside my suit jacket and stands on her tiptoes until her lips brush against my ear.
— Too many people are watching, and we don't look like a couple, so I thought I'd hug you, she whispers. — I'm sorry.
I glance sideways at the party. She's right; many eyes are on us. I feel the warmth of her breath on my neck and follow her lead, sliding an arm around her waist.
— Don't apologize. You're doing great, I murmur as we hold each other.
— Will it always be like this? she asks softly. — Am I always going to feel like I'm selling myself?
Involuntarily, my hand tightens slightly on her waist.
— I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel that way, I say. — You can still say no and walk away.
If she wants to go, she can. I could even try to help her get her daughter back without this. But given the accusations against her, no judge would grant her custody—especially not to raise her alone.
— I know, she whispers. — But my daughter is everything to me.