Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Wasn’t Supposed to Fit
Penelope discovered three things during her first week at Mercer House.
The first was that rich people owned too many forks.
The second was that Cassian Mercer slept approximately four hours a night.
The third was that pretending to love a man was surprisingly dangerous when that man began doing things that made pretending unnecessary.
Her bedroom occupied the east side of the second floor.
Calling it a bedroom felt dishonest.
It had a sitting area, fireplace, enormous bathroom, dressing room, and French doors opening onto a balcony overlooking a private garden.
The first morning, Penelope woke at five-thirty because bakers did not understand sleeping late.
She walked downstairs barefoot, wearing an old Northwestern sweatshirt, and found Cassian in the kitchen.
Not the formal kitchen.
The smaller family kitchen hidden behind it.
He stood at the counter in black pants and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He was making coffee.
Badly.
Penelope stopped in the doorway.
Cassian looked over.
“You’re awake.”
“So are you.”
“I work.”
“I bake.”
“You are not baking today.”
“Do you enjoy saying irritating things before sunrise?”
“I haven’t decided.”
She walked toward the coffee machine.
He had somehow managed to overflow the grounds basket.
Penelope stared.
“You own four restaurants.”
“Yes.”
“And you cannot operate a coffee machine.”
“I employ people.”
“That’s the most billionaire answer possible.”
Cassian moved aside.
Penelope fixed the machine.
Two minutes later, she handed him a mug.
He drank.
His eyebrows moved slightly.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“You’re welcome.”
They stood in silence.
It should have been awkward.
Instead, strangely, it wasn’t.
Cassian looked at her sweatshirt.
“You went to Northwestern?”
“Two years.”
“What happened?”
“My mother got sick.”
He said nothing.
Penelope shrugged.
“I came home. Took care of her. Started baking for money. She died. I kept baking.”
“I’m sorry.”
It was simple.
No fake sympathy.
No uncomfortable performance.
Penelope looked at him.
“Thank you.”
“Your file didn’t mention Northwestern.”
“My file?”
“The background investigation.”
“Please stop calling it that.”
“What should I call it?”
“Creepy stalking with excellent administrative organization.”
His mouth almost smiled.
Penelope took her coffee.
“Your grandmother taught you to cook anything?”
“No.”
“Your mother?”
Cassian’s face shut down so quickly Penelope regretted asking.
“No.”
Before she could apologize, footsteps entered the room.
Dorian.
He wore gray sweatpants and a navy sweater.
Unlike Cassian, he looked irritatingly alive at six in the morning.
“Good morning, lovers.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened.
Penelope sipped her coffee.
“Good morning, forbidden brother.”
Dorian laughed.
Cassian did not.
“I like her,” Dorian told him.
“That makes one of us.”
Penelope looked at Cassian.
“You told a magazine yesterday that you fell in love with me because I challenge you.”
“I lied.”
“Very convincing.”
Dorian opened the refrigerator.
“You two are adorable.”
Cassian left without another word.
Penelope watched him go.
Dorian closed the refrigerator.
“Careful.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“He only walks away that fast when something matters.”
“You said he didn’t like me.”
“I didn’t.”
“He just did.”
Dorian’s expression changed.
“Cassian says many things he wishes were true.”
Before Penelope could respond, he walked away.
She hated mysterious rich families.
Unfortunately, she was beginning to like one member of this one.
The first public event occurred three nights later.
A hospital foundation gala.
A stylist arrived at Mercer House with six dresses.
Penelope rejected five.
The sixth was deep green, fitted through her waist and hips before falling into a long skirt.
The stylist looked nervous.
“It emphasizes your figure.”
Penelope met her reflection.
“Good.”
When she walked downstairs, Cassian was waiting.
He wore black.
Of course he wore black.
He turned.
Then stopped.
Penelope fought a smile.
“That bad?”
Cassian stared.
“No.”
“That sounded painful.”
He crossed the room.
His gaze moved over her slowly.
She felt every inch.
Then he said, “You look beautiful.”
No hesitation.
No qualifier.
Penelope looked away first.
“Thank you.”
He held out his hand.
She took it.
Outside the gala, photographers shouted their names.
Cassian leaned toward her.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Neither am I.”
That made her laugh.
The cameras exploded.
Cassian looked at her.
Something in his expression softened.
More cameras flashed.
By morning, that photograph would be everywhere.
Penelope laughing.
Cassian watching her instead of the cameras.
The public loved it.
Inside, wealthy strangers approached them constantly.
Penelope expected judgment.
She received plenty.
Women in couture assessed her body, her accent, her lack of pedigree.
Men asked Cassian where he had “found” her.
One woman named Celeste Harrow smiled sweetly and said, “I’ve heard your bakery is charming. Very… neighborhood.”
Penelope smiled.
“I’ve heard your third divorce is going beautifully.”
Cassian coughed into his champagne.
Celeste left.
“You cannot insult every donor,” Cassian murmured.
“I can try.”
His thumb moved over her knuckles.
The touch was supposed to look affectionate.
It felt real.
At dinner, Cassian’s longtime attorney, Evelyn Shaw, sat beside Penelope.
Evelyn was sixty, silver-haired, terrifying, and immediately wonderful.
“I opposed this plan,” she said.
“Comforting.”
“I thought Cassian would hire an actress.”
“He did tell me I was beautiful.”
“Then he’s already behaving strangely.”
Penelope laughed.
Across the room, Cassian was speaking with a senator.
He looked over.
Their eyes met.
For three seconds, the crowded ballroom disappeared.
Penelope’s smile faded.
Cassian’s expression did too.
Something passed between them.
Then a woman touched Cassian’s arm.
Tall.
Blonde.
Perfect.
Penelope felt an unexpected stab.
Evelyn noticed.
“That,” she said quietly, “is Arabella Vaughn.”
“Should I know her?”
“Cassian almost married her.”
Penelope looked back.
Arabella was smiling up at Cassian.
He was not smiling.
Still.
Penelope hated the sensation in her chest.
Jealousy was not part of the contract.
Arabella joined them ten minutes later.
“Cassian,” she said. “You should introduce us.”
Cassian’s hand immediately settled around Penelope’s waist.
“Penelope Blake. My fiancée.”
Arabella looked Penelope over.
The pause lasted half a second too long.
“So unexpected.”
Penelope smiled.
“That’s what Cassian says every morning.”
Cassian’s fingers tightened against her waist.
Arabella’s smile sharpened.
“How did you meet?”
“My bakery.”
“You were buying pastries?”
Penelope looked at Cassian.
“He came to collect a debt.”
Silence.
Cassian turned his head.
Penelope smiled sweetly.
Arabella laughed, assuming it was a joke.
“So romantic.”
“Extremely.”
After Arabella left, Cassian led Penelope onto a balcony.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“You nearly told her the truth.”
“I made it sound ridiculous enough that nobody believed me.”
“That was reckless.”
“You seem tense.”
“I dislike Arabella.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Cassian looked through the glass doors.
“She approached me because she wanted information.”
“About the investigation?”
“Yes.”
“You sure she didn’t want you back?”
His eyes returned to Penelope.
“Would that bother you?”
The question was too direct.
Penelope folded her arms.
“I’m asking professionally.”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“I don’t want her back.”
Something inside Penelope relaxed.
She hated herself for noticing.
Cassian stepped closer.
“However, the photographers behind the glass believe we’re arguing.”
Penelope glanced.
Several lenses pointed toward them.
“What do fake happy couples do after arguing?”
“Kiss.”
Her heart stopped.
Cassian looked at her mouth.
“May I?”
The fact that he asked destroyed whatever defense she had prepared.
She nodded.
Cassian touched her face.
Slowly.
His thumb brushed her cheek.
Then he kissed her.
It was supposed to be brief.
It was supposed to be calculated.
Instead, Cassian’s mouth lingered.
Penelope gripped his lapel.
A sound moved low in his throat.
The kiss deepened.
Only slightly.
Enough.
When he pulled away, Penelope couldn’t remember where she was.
Cassian rested his forehead against hers.
“Photographers,” he murmured.
She swallowed.
“Right.”
Neither moved.
“Cassian?”
“Yes?”
“That did not feel professional.”
“No.”
“What do we do about that?”
His eyes opened.
“We ignore it.”
Penelope almost laughed.
“That sounds healthy.”
“It is temporary.”
“So is food poisoning.”
Cassian stepped back.
The loss of warmth irritated her.
They returned inside.
For the rest of the evening they behaved perfectly.
Too perfectly.
Two days later, a gossip site posted the balcony kiss.
The headline read:
CASSIAN MERCER LOOKS VERY REAL WITH HIS VERY UNEXPECTED FIANCÉE.
Public approval of Cassian jumped eleven points.
His attorneys were delighted.
Penelope was miserable.
Because she had started measuring the day by small things.
Cassian bringing coffee upstairs without being asked.
Cassian texting her when meetings ran late.
Cassian sitting quietly in the bakery while she tested recipes.
Cassian listening when she talked about her mother.
Cassian noticing when she rubbed her wrist after kneading dough and anonymously sending a physical therapist to the bakery.
He never announced kindness.
He simply did it.
That was more dangerous.
Three weeks into the arrangement, Penelope woke from a nightmare.
Her mother.
Hospital machines.
Eddie’s men pounding on the bakery door.
She walked downstairs for water.
A light glowed beneath Cassian’s study door.
She hesitated.
Then knocked.
“Come in.”
Cassian sat behind his desk.
No jacket.
Tie gone.
A pistol lay beside a stack of papers.
Penelope stopped.
He followed her eyes.
“Does that frighten you?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
She almost smiled.
“You’re terrible at reassurance.”
“I prefer honesty.”
He put the gun into a drawer.
“What happened?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Cassian stood.
He walked to a sideboard and poured water.
Not whiskey.
Water.
He handed it to her.
Penelope took it.
“You?”
“I rarely sleep.”
“Why?”
Cassian looked at the dark windows.
“Habit.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one available.”
Penelope sat on the couch.
Cassian remained standing.
“You can sit. I’m not contagious.”
He sat across from her.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Then Penelope said, “My mother used to make me hot chocolate when I couldn’t sleep.”
Cassian looked toward the door.
“We have chocolate.”
“You?”
“No.”
“You’re drinking it.”
Twenty minutes later, the most feared man in Chicago was standing beside Penelope in the kitchen while she whisked cocoa.
Cassian tasted it.
His face changed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You hate it.”
“No.”
“You look offended.”
“My grandmother made this.”
Penelope lowered the spoon.
“Hot chocolate?”
“With cinnamon.”
Penelope had added cinnamon.
Cassian stared into the mug.
“She used to sit in the library during storms.”
“The forbidden brother library?”
His expression darkened.
“Dorian uses it now.”
“Why do you hate him?”
“I don’t.”
“You’re doing a terrible impression of someone who doesn’t.”
Cassian set down the mug.
“He is my brother.”
“That also wasn’t an answer.”
He looked at her.
“You ask too many questions.”
“You hired a baker, not a mannequin.”
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
The softness vanished instantly.
Cassian answered.
His face became cold.
“When?”
Pause.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“Keep her inside.”
He disconnected.
Penelope stood.
“What happened?”
Cassian crossed to the hallway.
“Someone photographed you leaving the bakery yesterday.”
“So?”
“They followed your car.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Investigation people?”
“Possibly.”
“Or?”
Cassian did not answer.
Penelope remembered rule two.
“No lying about threats.”
His eyes met hers.
“Or someone trying to pressure me.”
“Through me.”
“Yes.”
For the first time, the contract felt real in the wrong way.
Cassian approached her.
“If I ask you to leave Chicago, you leave.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“No?”
“We agreed six months. I’m not running because someone took pictures.”
“This isn’t about courage.”
“It’s my life.”
“And my responsibility.”
“I’m not property.”
“I know.”
The answer was immediate.
Unexpected.
Cassian took a breath.
“Penelope, I know you are not mine to control.”
Something in his voice made her heart stumble.
“But while you are wearing my ring, people will believe you matter to me.”
She looked down at the diamond.
“Do I?”
Cassian went silent.
Penelope regretted asking.
Then he stepped closer.
Too close.
“Yes.”
One word.
Nothing fake about it.
She looked up.
Cassian touched her cheek.
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
Penelope whispered, “This isn’t for cameras.”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
His hand stilled.
“Don’t what?”
“Kiss me unless you mean it.”
Cassian’s gaze lifted.
For a long second, there was no contract.
No investigation.
No photographers.
Only two people standing in a quiet kitchen after midnight.
Cassian lowered his hand.
“Go upstairs, Penelope.”
Her chest tightened.
“Right.”
She walked away.
At the staircase, she turned.
Cassian still stood in the kitchen.
Watching her.
Neither noticed Dorian standing in the dark hallway behind him.
Neither saw the look on Dorian’s face.
Not jealousy.
May you like
Not amusement.
Fear.
