Arranged(10)

I’d assumed as much. My workout was a very public affair. If you had a shiny new wife that worked her ass off at the gym on a daily basis, why not make the best of it and show her off?

Paparazzi set up camp at the entrance to my swanky health club, taking pictures of me coming and going.

Sometimes that was the extent of it, and other times they were allowed to take shots of my actual workout through the window, as though I was an unaware subject and they were my voyeurs.

I treated it as any modeling job, using my best angles to make sure the photos would at least be flattering.

“I don’t know if you saw the . . . rather distasteful photos they published of you two days ago. The ones featuring your . . . derriere.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course I’d seen them. They’d caught me in the middle of a grueling round of dirty dogs and taken full advantage. I’d assumed the whole thing was staged, as everything in my life was.

“Your husband was rather . . . agitated by those, so he would prefer it if you could refrain from doing that specific exercise in front of the ground level windows.”

“Do you think that was my idea? Reggie tells me how and where to train, and I do it. Take this up with him and whoever keeps calling the paparazzi every time I leave the house.”

“I believe your husband has already done so, but in case he missed any details, you should have a mind toward displaying yourself in a more ladylike fashion at all times.”

Asha relaying my husband’s messages to me was nothing new. We never communicated directly.

It was almost laughable. I didn’t even have his phone number. Our people communicated for us.

“You want me to work out in a ladylike fashion?” I asked, an edge to my tone. “That’s not a thing, Asha.”

She turned bright red with temper. “I don’t understand,” she spit out furiously, “how he could have found someone without one ounce of decorum or class. What he saw that made him choose a low-born slut like you I’ll never understand.” She was nearly foaming at the mouth by the end of her tirade.

Ah. There she was. She tried her best to stay frostily composed, but this was the hateful bitch who’d trained me to be the perfect, soulless, mail-order bride. “You should know better than anyone that I’m not a slut,” I told her calmly. “You were in the room when I was examined for a hymen.”

“A hymen that you sold like a common slut.”

“I doubt common sluts get paid as much as I did,” I told her deadpan, purely for the purpose of riling her further. She wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was I, so I figured I may as well make the best of it and give as good as I got.

I made a shooing motion with my hand. “Now move along. This expensive slut would like some privacy while she gets dressed.”

“As if you care,” she shot back as she moved away. “I’ve seen you at those vulgar modeling jobs of yours, changing like common riffraff for anyone to see.”

I rolled my eyes as I walked to the large dresser that was designated for my workout gear.

There was a binder on top, and it was open to a page spotlighting a blush pink workout ensemble that my personal dresser had designated for today’s exercise session. I carried the notebook across the closet.

Closet was an understatement in every way. The room that held my rich wife wardrobe was twice the size of my last apartment.

My stylist was organized to a fault, which made getting dressed simple but in the most complicated way.

I had to follow the numbers she’d typed next to each piece of clothing to its matching rack.

The top was a tiny, strappy pale pink sports bra that was numbered with a 67. I went to the bra section of the room and nabbed it off a hanger.

I set the binder down on the nearest surface, slipped off my robe, and pulled the skimpy top over my head.

When it was fastened I moved on to don nude thong panties, then skintight, stretchy burgundy leggings.

Even my shoes and socks matched. I thought about complaining when I saw that the maroon running shoes that’d been picked out for me had a hidden wedge in them, (because who worked out in heels?) but I decided it wasn’t worth it. If I was going to throw a fit about something, it wasn’t going to be shoes.

A trip to the gym took minimum prep, even for me, but I still took care with my appearance, treating it like another type of photo shoot. Just another part of the job.

I arranged my thick, streaky blonde hair into a practiced messy topknot, then moved onto makeup. I applied it lightly, going for natural with a rosy glow.

I had just finished applying nude lip-gloss when I heard my name being called.

“Yes?” I called back.

“Ready, Duchess?” Chester asked, voice pitched to be heard across the apartment.

“Always,” I replied, grabbing my workout bag and heading for the door.





CHAPTER





FIVE





Just a few days after the wedding I’d seen the wedding photos.

I found them in magazines. Several spreads had been set up in advance across varying publications.

No one had bothered to show them to me. I had to troll the internet for them just like everyone else.

They were breathtaking. The photographer was talented, the setting was sublime, and we were very convincing—the gorgeous billionaire madly in love with his fresh, barely legal model bride.