CHAPTER THREE: PRACTICE MAKES PRETEND
AVA MONROE'S POV
The week before the wedding was filled with fittings, press briefings, and carefully staged photoshoots that made it look like we were in
love.
The truth was far less glamorous.
Ethan Kingsley, the man I was contractually bound to marry,
was a stranger in every way that mattered.
Sure, I knew the basics, his net worth, his scandals, his impossible standards, but beneath that polished exterior, he was a locked
vault. And I had no key.
We had just wrapped up our final rehearsal at the estate when he pulled me aside.
His jaw clenched as he gestured toward the back veranda.
"We need to talk," he said.
That was the first time he'd spoken directly to me all day.
I followed him into the golden dusk, the air between us prickling with formality.
He leaned against the railing, looking out over the gardens.
"I assume you're prepared for tomorrow?" he asked.
Prepared?
I bit down on a laugh. "You mean, am I ready to pretend to be madly in love with a man I've spoken to less than my nail technician?"
His gaze snapped to mine. Cold. Calculating.
"This arrangement is as much about perception as it is about
legality," he said.
"You'll need to play your role flawlessly. People will be watching."
"I'm aware."
"Then act like it."
I crossed my arms.
"What's your deal, Kingsley?, Why even bother with a marriage if you're so emotionally constipated you can't fake a smile?".
He didn't flinch.
"I don't need love," he said. "I need compliance. Efficiency. Control."
"And you think marrying me gives you that?"
"No," he said. "I think you're a risk worth calculating."
My stomach churned. There was something so eerily sterile about the way he spoke. Like I was a chess piece.
He turned to leave, then paused.
"There's a dinner tonight. Family only. Be ready at seven. Wear something red."
He disappeared through the double doors, leaving me standing there, frustrated, confused, and boiling with questions.
The dinner was a disaster.
His mother, Veronica Kingsley, eyed me with the sort of
practiced condescension only women of her wealth and generation possessed.
His sister made veiled jabs about my past. Even the staff seemed confused by my presence.
Ethan, meanwhile, sat stiffly at the head of the table, speaking only when absolutely necessary.
"So, Ava," Veronica said, sipping her wine. "Tell me, how does it feel to ascend from scandal to royalty?"
I forced a smile. "Oh, I'm just trying not to trip on the tiara."
Ethan choked on his drink. I considered that a victory.
After dinner, I escaped to the library, a cavernous room filled with leather, bound books no one had probably touched in decades.
I sank into a velvet armchair, closed my eyes, and exhaled.
But peace was fleeting.
"I see sarcasm is your weapon of choice," came Ethan's voice
from the doorway.
I didn't open my eyes. "Only when cornered."
He stepped into the room, the weight of his presence unsettling. "You handled my mother better than I expected."
"I've had practice."
He didn't ask what I meant.
We sat in silence for a while, the air between us finally still.
Then he said something I didn't expect.
"I don't like this either."
I looked at him.
"But you're the one who initiated the contract."
"I did. For reasons that are none of your concern."
"Then why say that?"
He walked to the bookshelf, ran his fingers along the spines.
"Because I thought honesty might be the one thing we don't fake."
I blinked.
Was this a truce?.
Before I could respond, he left. Again.
The next few days blurred together. We met with planners, took engagement photos, and endured endless fittings. Every moment was staged, curated for the cameras. But behind the scenes, things were shifting.
Ethan began to speak to me more.
He started asking questions, about my childhood, my interests, the scandal that forced me into hiding.
I answered cautiously.
He never judged. Never pitied.
Just listened.
One night, we practiced our first dance in the ballroom.
The space echoed with music from a speaker as I fumbled through the steps.
"You're stiff," he said.
"You're smug," I shot back.
He smirked. "Relax."
He pulled me closer, his hand at my waist, his breath near my temple. And for a fleeting moment, we weren't faking it.
It felt real.
Too real.
I stepped back.
"I need water," I lied, and fled.
The night before the wedding, I couldn't sleep.
I stood by the window in my silk robe, staring at the moonlight spilling over the Kingsley estate.
There was a knock.
Ethan entered without waiting for permission.
He looked tired. Human.
"I wanted to say something," he said.
I raised a brow.
"I know this isn't what you wanted. Or deserved.
But tomorrow, we'll make it through. Together. No matter what comes."
My throat tightened.
"Why are you really doing this, Ethan?"
A pause.
"Because trust is the one currency I can't buy. And you, Ava Monroe, are the only person who hasn't tried to sell me a lie."
He left after that.
And I stood there, trembling.
Not because I feared the future.
But because I feared I might start to believe him.