When Brittany awoke the next morning, she heard the bustle outside her room. Cracking the door, she was thrust into a spectacular world: white-clothed workers, scrambling to create a spectacular wedding for her—yes, Brittany, the very girl who’d been sorting muffins the previous day. Raisin. Craisin. Chocolate chip. Jesus. Now, she peered across the chaos to find her soon-to-be-husband, that handsome, scheming man, darting about, eating a croissant and speaking in booming tones to a horn-rimmed person who appeared to be the wedding planner.

“The ceremony’s on the terrace. Right. And we’ll have the hor d’oeurves out here—along the counter, with the bartender—right, to the side of the terrace.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Paul caught a glimpse of Brittany, peering out from behind the door. With fluid steps, he crossed the massive room toward her, through three florists who were dividing flowers, one after another on the dining room table. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek, allowing her to inhale his musk.

She felt a sizzle of fire through her brain, a reminder that she was lucky just to be chosen to be in the same room as this handsome man, let alone his wife. Sham marriage or no.

“How are you feeling about everything?” Paul asked her, entering her room and sitting at the edge of the bed, his face taking on a stoic expression. He was wearing another, immaculate suit, his hair swept back with just the smallest amount of gel, his face firm and professional. He looked eternally ready for the pages of a magazine, while Brittany couldn’t have looked more like she’d just rolled out of bed.

“Fine,” Brittany murmured, crossing her arms over her chest. In the midst of all the crazy things in her life, she felt she had nowhere else to turn. He had a daughter, sure. But that wasn’t any of her concern. Not now. It wasn’t like she was going to be taking him to design class with her. They would have separate lives, with minimal contact. She could handle that, right? “I think it’ll be wonderful to know your daughter,” she whispered.

“Not sure that’ll happen much, anyway,” Paul boomed, bringing his hands together. It was obvious he didn’t want to speak about this much—about the logistics of actually being married, what it would mean. “The makeup and hair ladies are arriving in just a few minutes, which means we’ll get you all dolled up to be around these high society assholes.”

Brittany sniffed, trying to joke. “Isn’t that who you are?”

“Suppose so. But I’ll tell you, this open bar. It’s going to be pretty life altering. Best bartender in the city. Even better than Clyde.” Hey paused, giving Brittany his first honest look of the day: eyes centered, eyebrows high, just as he’d looked at her in the café—just the day before, but something like a million years ago. “Hey. Just letting you know. When you mingle with my parents and everyone later… out there… I’m going to need you to pretend that we’ve been together for a while. Six months, at the least. Otherwise, they’ll think—“

Brittany lifted her hand, stretching it out and gazing at her half-bitten, coffee-tinted fingernails. “I get it.”

But did she?

As the day moved ahead, it became an ominous blur: with three women racing into her bedroom, brushing through her hair, applying mounds of foundation and blush and eye shadow, peppering her with hairspray, and then spinning her toward a mirror—revealing a stunning, 20s-era model, with wide-set brown eyes, pale skin, and bright red lips. Peering at herself in the mirror, Brittany felt suddenly caught off-guard, realizing she wouldn’t have a single person at the wedding to see this big, wicked moment in her life—this great, horrible sell-out.

Sarah had sent her nearly 40 messages since Brittany had been fired, wondering where she was, what had happened. And the message she returned—telling her the address to come to, to dress in her absolute best, that she would explain later—was ominous and almost twisted. What on earth would Sarah say to her?

She would say she was absolutely crazy. Brittany knew that for sure. She would say she should have come home, talked it out, arrived at a better conclusion.

But what could be better than having an unlimited supply of cash at her disposal, in return for selling her soul?

The ceremony was a blur. She marched down the aisle, clinging to no one’s arm, and sensing three dozen simmering eyes upon her, all staring from rich, moisturized faces, atop bodies that were clad in gorgeous, multi-thousand dollar suits and gowns. As she walked, Brittany caught sight of the woman she’d seen at the apartment the night before—the ex-wife, along with his daughter, Lea, who was poised at the front, near her daddy, wearing a soft, light pink gown. A man who seemed to be Paul’s twin, but about 40 years older, hovered near the side, with a younger woman latched to his arm—potentially Paul’s parents. They blinked at her ominously, judgmentally, without any aura of warmth.

Before she knew it, she was saying the words.

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She did. She had to.

Before everyone, God and family and rich, resting-bitch-faced New Yorkers, Brittany and Paul shared their first kiss. A bit tipsy from pre-ceremony champagne, to gloss away the jitters, Brittany felt herself teetering in his arms, falling into him. Yet, the moment his lips touched hers, there was an emotion, a feeling between them—a wave, thrust through their chests, that made them draw back from one another and blink, as if they were looking into the light.

“Woah,” Brittany breathed.

But the crowd couldn’t hear her. They’d begun to clap, leading both Paul and Brittany back down the tiny aisle, toward the bar, where they were poured two shimmering glasses of champagne. Paul lifted his glass, with pomp and circumstance, and toasted the crowd, giving a slight wink to a magazine photographer who sucked up toward them, giving them a flash.

“Thank you all for being here today to celebrate this most grand affair, especially on such short notice,” Paul boomed. Glancing toward Brittany, with something like love in his eyes, he added: “It’s true what they say about love. When you know, you know.”

After guzzling first one glass, then three, Brittany found herself wrapped up in conversation with Paul’s mother and father, who continued to peer at her as if she were an urchin off the street. Their accents were French, labored, as if they didn’t spend much time in New York. The mother spoke first, introducing herself as Claudia.

“My dear,” she began. “It is so nice to meet you. And to welcome you into our family—“

“So soon after we’ve learned of you,” Max, the father stammered. “It was really quite a surprise to us. And now—“

“When was it you met our boy Pau?” Claudia asked, bringing her eyebrows into a tight knit over her eyes.

“Erm—around six months ago,” Brittany whispered.

“Oh. So you’ve spent at least a bit of time with Lea, oui?” Claudia asked. Leaning toward her, whispering conspiratorially. “You know, I think Elena will try to keep full custody. But you must fight, my girl. I know Paul’s told you everything.”

“Erm,” Brittany whispered once more, glancing across the crowd. The little girl, Lea, was spinning in circles, allowing her pink gown to fly out in all directions. Her curls sparked in the orange sunset.

“Not the time for it, my dear,” Max boomed then, drawing his arm to Brittany’s shoulder, giving her an almost grandfatherly gaze. “We’ll discuss it soon. In depth. Without champagne.”

Brittany’s heart hammered in her chest. Glancing around the party, she finally caught sight of a familiar face, her Sarah, tucked in the corner and speaking emphatically to a tall, handsome man, with blonde hair and gray eyes, who seemed smarmy, tight-lipped. Earlier, Brittany had seen his hand around Lea’s and felt curious—but not ready to ask questions.

The moment Brittany approached, Sarah flung her thin arms around her neck, giving her a brief kiss and whispering: “What the hell is going on?”

“Ah. The famous bride,” the grey-eyed man said, stuffing his hand forward and shaking Brittany’s. “I must say, it’s a pleasure.”

“And you are?” Brittany asked, feeling aghast. In the corner, she sensed Elena’s eyes on her once more—a kind of burning penetration that made her feel small, lost.

“I’m Jack. I’m sure Paul has told you all about me? And all good things, I know?” he boomed.

Brittany nodded earnestly, her eyes searching his with confusion. She felt she would fall down in a mental break, feel engulfed in the horror of this wedding nightmare. But just as she did it, Sarah tugged her away, bringing her to the bathroom and demanding answers.

“Drink this water,” Sarah said. “You don’t want to pass out on your wedding day.”

“Ha,” Brittany whispered, guzzling it. The liquid dribbled along her scratchy tongue and entered her empty stomach, which was stretched even thinner inside a wedding dress corset. “Jesus. What have I gotten myself into?”

“I don’t suppose you can back out now?” Sarah asked.

“Have you seen what I’ve already been through?” Brittany asked. “Talking to his parents. Being ogled by some of the richest assholes in New York. I’m going to have to move in here, I guess? I have my own room—“

“What about his expectations?” Sarah asked then, her eyebrows high. “As his wife, I mean. In the bedroom.”

Brittany hesitated. Her brain had been spinning with these thoughts as well, simmering with fear about the night ahead. Would he expect her to make love to him? To “seal” their marriage, so to speak? She’d imagined it, sure: deep in the dark caverns of her mind, she’d imagined him above her, holding onto her tight, crying out with pleasure as they romped on his king-sized mattress all night—a bed she’d only seen in passing from one room to the next.

But when all the guests disappeared for the night: when Sarah gave her a kiss goodbye, when Max and Claudia shook her slim hand and after Elena gave her a snide glance before grabbing Lea’s hand and guiding her out the door—it was just Brittany and Paul left over.

Paul collapsed atop the sofa, kicking his shoes toward the fireplace and sipping at a whiskey, no ice. His eyes searched her face, as if she were trying to remember who she was. She pressed her hands together tightly, preparing to grill him for answers—to demand a rulebook on how this was supposed to go.

But he just turned to gaze into the empty fireplace, looking lackluster, his face void of color. “You can head to bed, if you want. Make yourself at home. I had a few maids pick out some clothes for you. Bed things. They should be in the dresser drawer.”

Brittany nodded. Her lips parted during a horrible silence, one she wasn’t entirely certain Paul noticed. “How is this—how will this work, Paul?” she whispered then.

Paul’s eyes flickered toward her, showing how lost in thought he was. “We’re roommates, babe,” he said, knocking the rest of his whiskey down his throat. “You can help yourself to the credit card. The cash. Whatever you want, you can have. Just sleep in your room, and I’ll sleep in mine. That sound clear to you?”

“Crystal,” Brittany murmured.

Whipping around toward her bedroom, she found herself at the edge of the king-sized spread, her head in her hands, with dark makeup swirling down her cheeks like rivers. In return for school and money, she’d given up on any future chance at love. This was her path—the one she had chosen. And already, she wished she could turn back.