Jet lag is real and I’m living it. I find myself very overwhelmed by everything that is Paris, France. Different language, different everything. Being so far from home and everything I’m familiar with makes things feel incredibly lonely. I’m just glad Marcus is here to stave off some of the strangeness I feel.

If I’m being honest, part of all the weirdness is knowing I’m about to go meet Marcus’s ex-wife. Undoubtedly she’s far more sophisticated than I am. She knows the fashion lingo. This is her world and Marcus’s world and I don’t belong. She’s going to take one look at me and know that I’ll be gone in a blink of an eye and have no staying power. From the articles I’ve read about her online, she’s a tyrant in the fashion industry and not well-liked. She’s gorgeous. Far more beautiful than I was expecting. But there’s a snake-like quality in her eyes that makes her look too severe, too blood thirsty. I can see why Marcus had been with her, but I can also see why he left her.

If she’s this terrifying in pictures, I can only imagine what she’s like in person. I wish I didn’t have to find out.

Another part of me is afraid because what if, when seeing her again, Marcus feels something for her? What if her presence rekindles old feelings and I’m pushed to the side?

As if sensing my reservations, Marcus comes up behind me where I’m standing in front of the mirror, wearing one of his incredible gowns. He wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles my neck.

“I wish we didn’t have to go out. Right now, with you in that dress, I … I just want to rip it off of you,” he says.

I smile at him in the reflection. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

That is if he still wants me later.

I hate how insecure I feel. But I’ve never felt like this before with anyone, and never this fast. My feelings for Marcus make my head spin. It didn’t take long at all for me to know that he’s the one. Now I’m desperate to hold onto that even though it’s a real possibility that he’s in it for the moment, for the duration of our agreement, and I will lose him as soon as it’s over. Even though I feel lonely in Paris, part of me wants to stay here forever because I know as soon as we get home, everything is going to change, and maybe not for the better.

Before we leave, I put on my sweater. He looks at me with a strange grin. “That’s an interesting choice to pair with that dress.” He doesn’t make it sound like a bad thing, even though I know my sweater is tattered and stretched out and doesn’t go with this amazing gown at all.

“It was my mother’s.” Looking fondly at the sweater, I say, “I know I should get a new one, but the things you love can’t be replace.”

It’s the only thing I have left of her now.

“No, don’t get a new one. I like it the way it is.” He stands back and admires me. “You might have even given me an idea for my next design.”

“Happy to help,” I say.

We leave for the meeting. It’s taking place at a fashion convention where Marcus’s ex-wife works. When we get there, it’s a red-carpet event and there are far more people here than I expected. My anxiety is on full alert.

As soon as we get out of the car, cameras are shoved in our faces, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the great Marcus Steere and his mystery date.

Marcus takes me by the hand and leads me through the crowd. The paparazzi ask me who I’m wearing and who I am. They want to know my name, where I’m from, how we met. All of their voices clash together into white noise. I ignore them, fighting back the nerves that make me want to break away and run for the quietest corner I can find. This is his life everyday. I don’t know how he deals with all of these people. It must get tiring being this important.

Once we’re inside the building and shut away from the reporters, things are less chaotic, but not by much. Marcus seems to know everyone we pass. They shake his hand and compliment his new line of menswear. Then their eyes move down to our hands clutching each other. I’m studied as if I were in a lab under a microscope. They notice everything from my strappy heels, to my glamorous dress, to the ratty sweater that they are all very curious about. They think it’s part of the dress, part of the ensemble and they love it. Marcus gives me a wink and I giggle.

Some of the crowd look on with curiosity, while others—mostly men and a handful of women—look at me as if I have no clothes on at all. I have to admit, the way this dress shows off the swells of my breasts is quite something to behold. In the fashion industry, surrounded by twiggy girls, they must not see too many bodies like mine.

Marcus latches on to me as if reading their dirty minds. He’s protective and seems to get a little jealous when handsome men start to pay too much attention.

He introduces me to all the big-wigs, names I’ve heard roll off celebrity lips on TV when bragging about the clothes they wear. People you always hear about but never see. Most of them are flamboyant and over the top, but I guess in this sort of business where it’s always a struggle to stay on top, you have to stand out. Marcus is so different than his peers. He’s subtle, graceful, elegant, and yet he sticks out far more than the other men wearing loud colors and crazy hair, looking like extras on the set of Hunger Games.

People respond to me in ways I never imagined. They look at me and then at Marcus and say things like, “If she’s the muse for your women’s clothing line, then I’ll take every piece in the collection.”

The pride I feel when he introduces me as his wife and looks at me with affection makes me feel radiant. Sometimes, when he’s talking to someone, he absent-mindedly rubs my back or caresses my arm, as if he needs to be constantly touching me. Maybe he’s nervous too and I’m a source of comfort for him, though I doubt it. He always looks so calm and collected. Maybe he just likes touching me. I like that scenario a whole lot better, and yet I can’t let myself get my hopes up.

A woman approaches us. She smiles at me and touches Marcus’s shoulder to get his attention. When he turns toward her, his brilliant lit face goes cold, as if a storm cloud had passed over his head. I didn’t recognize his ex-wife, Miranda, at first. Her hair is long and curly, cascading around her shoulders. In photos she always has it up. She’s in her early thirties, though she could easily pass for younger.

Marcus’s lips tighten and there’s a wrinkle between his brows that I haven’t seen from him before. It’s an expression I don’t like at all. I hope the day he looks at me like that never comes.

He looks at her with disdain, but she looks at him like he’s hung the moon. I don’t like that look on her face either. I want to be the only woman who looks at him like that. Suddenly I’m feeling very possessive and I cling to his arm. When she looks at me, her eyebrows rise.

“You must be what all the gossip is about.” She reaches her hand out. Her nails are perfectly manicured. Bracelets jingle as she moves. It never occurred to me to get a manicure. I’m not sure why. Again, the self-consciousness catches up with me. I try to swallow it down, remembering that I’m the one on his arm and not her. He doesn’t look at me with the grimace he seems to save just for her.

I smile and introduce myself. She gives a little snort at the sound of my name.

“So you’re the girl of the hour,” she says, then gives Marcus a bit of a nudge on his arm and leans in. “But I’m guessing more like a minute.”

Marcus glares at her, unamused. “She’s my wife.”

Miranda takes a subtle step back. Had she not heard that part in all the gossip going around? She glances down at my hand, seeming to notice the ring for the first time. Then she notices the companion ring on Marcus’s finger and her hand goes to her chest where she fiddles with a diamond necklace that looks like it cost a fortune.

“I’ve heard rumors, but I didn’t believe it.” She seems to swallow something stuck in her throat. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

Marcus’s face softens a little. “Thank you, Miranda. I appreciate it.”

Someone calls Miranda’s name. She looks relieved. “Please, excuse me for a moment. It’s a busy night.” Marcus nods and Miranda looks like she couldn’t get away fast enough.

He then leans into me and talks just under his breath. “I think maybe the plan worked.”

I look up at him. “Really? How can you tell?”

“She’s acting different. The moment she saw you, she looked … detached. Like she finally realizes it’s over between us. I could be wrong. She might not be willing to sell her shares to me, but … maybe. It’s been a long time since I even thought there was a maybe in the future.”

I squeeze his hand reassuringly.

Miranda never comes back and Marcus doesn’t wait around for her. We go to several fashion shows. I’m still his personal assistant, so I’m busy taking notes and writing down all the different designers he likes and the styles he might want to see in his stores. I’m glad for the work. It gives me something to think about other than the turmoil I feel right now.

Later, at an after party, he’s pulled away to look at someone’s look-book, and my feet are killing me in these shoes, so I find a quiet place to settle into and clean up my notes so they’re legible enough to read before I forget what I’d scribbled.

While I’m alone, I’m approached by Miranda. My back instantly goes rigid. Marcus is nowhere around. I see the top of his head in the corner, but his nose is in a book and I’m on my own with the she-devil. She sits beside me without being invited and I pull in a breath and hold it until my lungs hurt.

“Marcus has always been a terrible liar,” she says.

She reminds me of Meryl Streep’s character in the Devil wears Prada, just a younger version. She reaches for my hand and toys with the diamond on my finger. I want to pull away from her, but can’t seem to move.

“I know you’re not married. I have eyes and ears all over that store.”

I should deny it, stand up for Marcus, but it wouldn’t take much for her to check the facts and find that there’s no marriage certificate. Continuing the lie will only make him look foolish and I want to protect him in any way I can.

“He’s just using you, you know. He likes his shiny new toys.” She glances at the swell of my breasts pointedly to let me know exactly what she’s talking about. “But he always comes back to me in the end. We’ve been playing this little game from the beginning. There’s always some excuse to come to these events. What is it this time? Do I owe him money? Let me guess, he told you I’m holding the shares of his company hostage. That’s classic.”

My heart thunders in my ears. She has to be lying. This is some kind of game she’s playing. Marcus wouldn’t use me just to have an excuse to be here … unless he’s been using me to make her jealous this whole time.

My breathing sharpens even though I will my lungs to slow down.

“Every time we meet at one of these events, we fuck and he begs me to come back to him.”

I stand abruptly. I can’t listen to this anymore. I start to walk away, but she grabs my arm. “Let go of me,” I demand, but she doesn’t. When I try to pull out of her grip she rips my mother’s sweater. I push her and she falls back into her seat, looking at me, startled.

We’ve attracted quite the audience by now. People have their phones out, recording and snapping pictures. My blood boils over. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to punch her right in the face.

“You’re nothing,” she says as I flee, venom spewing from her lips. “You’re trash. He’ll never love you the way he loves me. It will be me in his bed tonight. Not you.”

I glance over at where Marcus was standing. He sees the gathering crowd and heads toward us. I can’t be near him right now. I have to get out of here. There’s no way I’ll be able to run in these shoes, so I kick them off and I leave as fast as I can.