Mari

“I’m not going to call you ‘sir’ anymore.” I climb into the backseat of his freshly waxed limousine Monday morning as it gently idles outside my apartment. The scent of supple leather and Hudson’s Creed cologne fills my lungs with dizzying deliciousness the second I inhale. “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend.” Obsessing, really. “I made of list of things I wanted to discuss with you before we dive into all of this. I have expectations too, you know. And I think it’s really important that we—”

“Hot tea?” Hudson wears a warm smile as he hands me a paper cup with little tufts of steam rising from the lid. “You take yours with a splash of milk and one sugar. Or so I was told.”

“Oh. Um. Thank you.” I reach for the cup, my fingers brushing his. All things considered, this might be the kindest gesture this man’s made toward me since I’ve known him.

I settle into my seat, my shoulders relaxing slightly. He’s making an effort. This is good. This is a step in the right direction. This gives me hope that this thing might actually work out.

“Let me make one thing clear,” I continue, blowing through the lid of my cup, eyes darting to him. “I’m in this for the money and only for the money. And I don’t work for you. I’ll be working with you. Side by side. Like a team. So don’t treat me like your assistant anymore. Don’t ask me to fetch you coffee or your dry cleaning. Even if I were your girlfriend or whatever, I wouldn’t be running your errands. That’s not my style.”

His full lips arch into a coy smirk, but I have his attention. He’s listening.

“In order for this to look authentic, it has to feel authentic,” I say, placing my tea aside. “If it’s me you want, it’s me you’re going to get—not some sugar substitute version.”

The car stops outside a corner building, and an array of trademark red awning-covered windows catch my eye and silence my commentary.

“We’re here,” he says as his driver comes around to get the door.

I’m terribly underdressed for Cartier, but Hudson doesn’t say a word. He places his hand on the small of my back, leans into my ear, and whispers, “Try to keep it under six figures.”

I nod, swallowing the nervous lump in my throat, and an armed man in a three-piece suit opens the front door with a welcoming smile.

“There he is!” a woman with shiny silver hair and a red, Jackie O style dress sashays toward us with open arms. “Hudson, my love. How are you? So good to see you. Come, come.”

“Guinevere.” He leans in for a hug, smiling as she air kisses his cheek, and then he reaches for my hand. “This is my beautiful fiancée, Maribel Collins.”

Holding hands with Hudson Rutherford isn’t something I imagined doing in a hundred billion years, but I clear my throat, throw my shoulders back, and walk in step past case beyond case of diamond jewels as we follow the lady in the red dress to a private elevator.

We arrive on the third level a moment later, the woman still rambling on. Apparently she knows Hudson’s family well, having attended prep school with his mother decades ago.

“We’re going to be in here today,” she says, trailing through a set of double mahogany doors. I’m guessing this building is some former old moneyed industrialist’s turn of the century mansion, and this room looks like it doubled as a study or a library before it was converted to a private showroom. The walls are covered in dark polished board and batten, and the windows are tall and narrow, covered in fine draperies and letting in just enough natural light to send a dazzling glimmer to the curated displays of canary diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires lining the room. “You two have a seat. I’m going to grab a few pieces I pulled. I’ll be right back.”

Guinevere exits the room, pulling the doors closed behind her, and Hudson and I take our places in two red velvet chairs opposite an expansive desk.

We’re still holding hands, and I don’t know if he realizes that, but I don’t move. Instead, I remind myself we’re supposed to be “in love.” This is what people who love each other do. They hold hands. They touch. They can’t get enough of each other.

My stomach turns.

I don’t know if it’s the morning sickness or the fact that this is all happening so fast.

“All right.” Guinevere returns, a case in her hand covered in a red velvet cloth. She takes the seat on the other side of the desk and begins lining up the diamonds in size order, and just when I think they can’t possibly get any bigger, she retrieves one last rock the size of my thumbnail and sits it on the end. “And I couldn’t resist this guy. Just for fun. Eight flawless, cushion-cut carats.”

She winks, flashing a smile in Hudson’s direction.

“The bigger the better,” I tease, squeezing his hand. “That’s what I always say. Right, babe?”

“Love, I don’t know.” Guinevere pulls her glasses off her nose, placing them aside as she sighs. “You don’t scream Park Avenue Princess to me. You seem very classic and understated. I wouldn’t go more than three carats for you. This one might be too much, but here.” She hands it over. “Go ahead and try it on.”

I was only kidding, but I take the bauble and slip it down my left ring finger.

Fits like a glove.

I tilt my hand under the light, mesmerized by the fire and sparkle this thing throws. Guinevere is right. I’m not a flashy Park Avenue Princess, and I would never so much as put a ring like this on my wish list, but I’m playing a part. And I’ve seen the girls Hudson spends his spare time entertaining in his luxe penthouse. Girls like those love rings like these, I’m certain.

I am an actress …

… and this is a prop.

It’s that simple.

“Oh, baby, I love it!” I splay my hand across my chest and bat my lashes.

Hudson’s eyes land on mine, like he’s trying to silently ask me if I’m joking, but I don’t let up.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I wave my hand in his face. “And eight carats! We met on the eighth of January. It’s meant to be.”

“It’s a little … much … for your taste. Don’t you think?” he asks carefully.

“Not. At. All.” I pull the ring closer, inspecting it as if it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my entire life. And maybe it is. “This is the one. I’m certain.”

Guinevere sits up straight, her eyes dancing between the two of us as she keeps quiet, watching.

“Please?” I beg. The real Mari wouldn’t beg. It feels unnatural, like a dress that pulls at the shoulders or shoes that are too big in the toes.

“You really want this ring?” He lifts his left brow, rubbing his hand along his chiseled jaw.

I nod, clasping my hands together.

Hudson sighs, turning to Guinevere. “How much is this one going to set me back?”

She brings a finger to her lips, breathing in and exhaling. “Well. This one’s special. It once belonged to the Duchess of Guildford in the 19^th century. It’s from our Legacy collection. I could show you a few pieces from our Estate collection if you’d like? Those are newer and less … historically significant.”

“Babe, this is a royal diamond.” I place my hand on top of his, pouting. “This is a piece we could have in our family for generations to come. We could pass this down to our children’s children someday. Could you even imagine?”

I hate the way I sound. Hate it.

Hudson sighs. “All right. You going to tell me how much it is?”

“Just a hair under two hundred,” Guinevere says. “Comparable rings from our Estate collection would be quite less. I’m not sure what your budget is, but—”

“It’s fine. We’ll take it.” Hudson reaches for my hand and squeezes—hard—before diving into his wallet and retrieving his black AmEx. “Anything for my future wife.”

“You’re a smart man, Hudson.” Guinevere stands, collecting his card and the remainder of the engagement pieces. “And you’re a very fortunate lady, Maribel. Hudson is one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, and the Rutherfords are a wonderful family to marry into. Your parents must be proud.”

“They’re thrilled,” I lie.

My parents have no idea, and ideally, I’d like to keep it that way.

They’re salt-of-the-earth, childhood sweethearts who’ve never left their hometown of Orchard Hill, Nebraska. They’re humble and kind. They go to St. Mary’s for mass every Sunday and spend the weekends holed up in their Cornhusker-themed living room watching re-runs on HGTV.

They raised me to walk a straight line, to work hard, and to live a respectable life.

They wouldn’t understand this.

And they sure as hell wouldn’t be proud.

“Guinevere,” Hudson says, “my parents don’t know about the engagement yet, so if you could not mention it next time you see them …”

“My lips are sealed. I promise. Be back in a moment.” She smiles, slipping her glasses back over her nose and disappearing behind the double doors.

“Can you not?” Hudson turns to me, his expression fading the second she’s gone.

“Not what?”

“Can you not act so vapid and materialistic? Eight carats? Are you fucking kidding me?” He rubs his temples and sinks back in his chair, staring straight ahead past one of the narrow windows. “And don’t call me ‘babe.’ Please.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted?”

“What about me makes you think that’s what I wanted?” His words are swift and frustrated.

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I’ve seen the kind of women you associate with. I was just trying to be like them.”

He huffs. “If I wanted a woman like that, I’d have settled down a long time ago, Mari. There’s a reason I chose you for this. You’re not like them.”

“What do you want me to do?” I lean forward, brows meeting in the middle. “Maybe you should’ve told me what you wanted from me before you brought me here. I’m not a mind reader. How do you want me to act?”

“Like yourself. Be authentic. Not a caricature.”

I wrinkle my nose, readying my rebuttal just as Guinevere returns, two little red boxes in her hand. She slides the small ring box toward us.

“The ring fits you perfectly,” she says to me. “Correct?”

I nod.

“Wonderful.” She smiles, passing Hudson’s card his way along with a receipt to sign. “And if you ever need it sized, please don’t hesitate to bring it back. Also, as a special thank you, I’m throwing in a little something extra.”

Guinevere slides the larger of the two boxes between us.

“It’s a love bracelet,” she says, cracking the box open with a gentle pop. A thick gold bangle rests on a velvet pillow alongside a matching gold screwdriver. “This is a signature piece. Very timeless and classic. Hudson, you’re supposed to place it on her wrist and hold onto the screwdriver. You’re the only one who can remove it.”

My throat is dry. She may as well be presenting me with a medieval chastity belt. Who in their right mind would call this romantic?

“Wow,” Hudson says. “Thank you. Mari, what do you think?”

I glance up, our eyes meeting, and I force an uneasy smile.

“I love it,” I lie, hesitantly holding out my left wrist.

“Go on,” Guinevere says, tucking her silver hair behind one ear. “Let me see it on you, love.”

Hudson does the honors and within seconds I’m wearing a beautiful bracelet only he can remove. He slips the screwdriver into an interior pocket in his jacket before lifting my hand to his lips, depositing a kiss.

“Don’t forget your ring!” Guinevere slides the ring box toward me. “It’s a lovely piece. May it bring you a lifetime of happiness.”

“Thank you.” I slip the ring over my finger and drop the little red box in my purse. It’s heavy and noticeable, something I didn’t notice when I was too busy playing the part earlier. If I could go back thirty minutes, I’d have settled for something smaller and less … Kardashian.

Too late.

“Shall we?” Hudson rises, extending his elbow, and I follow suit, slipping my hand under his arm. Guinevere shows us to the door, and I catch a glimpse of his limo waiting on the street corner.

His driver pops out, circling the idling car in a hurry and grabbing the door for us.

“Are you satisfied with your engagement ring?” Hudson asks a moment later, when we’re cruising down Fifth Avenue and the privacy partition is raised.

I glance down. It doesn’t shimmer as much in the dark. I guess it makes sense though—diamonds need light in order to shine.

“It’s a beautiful ring,” I say.

“Yes, but do you love it?”

“Does it matter?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he checks his watch. “I’m going to head into the office. My driver will drop you off at Henri Bendel’s where you’re meeting with my stylist, Elle. She’ll be choosing some pieces for you—for the summer in Montauk. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“She’s been instructed to outfit you with a few staples in addition to your Hamptons wardrobe.”

“What’s wrong with my current wardrobe?” I tilt my chin down, squinting. “You never had a problem with it at the office.”

“I don’t want you dressing like an assistant anymore.”

“I thought you wanted me to be myself?” I glance down at my gray slacks and white blouse.

“I do want you to be yourself.” He reaches across the empty middle seat and places his hand over mine. “But I’d love for you to dress the part.”

“That’s right. I forgot you have an eye for design.” I roll my eyes when he’s not looking.

“Design is everything. Aesthetics are everything.” He glances out the window to his right, his hand remaining on mine. I recognize the street ahead. We’re getting closer to the office. This time last week, I was scrambling around ordering lunch for some English architects he decided to host at his office at the last minute. When it was over, he told me I should have chosen a better restaurant, one for more sophisticated palates.

“Beauty is only skin deep.”

The car comes to a slow stop outside Rutherford Architectural’s building.

“I give zero fucks about beauty.” He turns to me. “Design? That’s what matters. When you look at a building or a piece of art and it makes you feel something? That’s design. Someone intentionally created their piece with the sole purpose of making you feel something when you look at it. Beauty is secondary. Beauty is the stone or the marble or the fabric. The interpretation of the design.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with the way I dress.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Mari,” he says. “And if you’re going to be mine, I won’t have you hiding beneath cheap design. I’m upgrading your wardrobe effective immediately.”

I laugh. “Why? So you can feel something when you look at me?”

The driver opens Hudson’s door, but Hudson stays, letting his gaze linger on mine as we bask in temporary silence. He doesn’t answer me. He simply steps out a second later.

Straightening his suit jacket, he runs a hand down his thin black tie before leaning down to meet my gaze one last time.

“Elle will take good care of you today.” His lips press together and he exhales through his nose. “I’ll pick you up around one for lunch.”

“Oh? I had no idea. I’m supposed to meet one of my friends then. You have to tell me these things in advance.”

“You’ll need to reschedule.”

“I said I’d help you out, Hudson. I didn’t say you could commandeer my entire life.”

“I’m not commandeering anything. We need to have a date. We need to get to know each other. Soon you’ll be accompanying me to Montauk for the month of June, which means we need to be spending every spare moment together until then.”

I exhale, my fingers spinning the ridiculous ring on my finger.

“See you at one,” he says before turning to leave.

The driver closes the door and returns to the front, and I grab my phone, texting my best friend, Isabelle, to ask for a rain check and promising to explain everything as soon as I can.

Settling back against the smooth leather seat, I stare at Manhattan through a tinted window, placing my hand on my lower belly.

“I’m doing this for you, baby,” I whisper.