Wife.
Even now, three months into the arrangement, the word still had edges.
Maya had looked up from the paperback she wasn’t really reading and said, “Then maybe you should have married someone they’d find easier to photograph.”
Taylor had gone still for half a second. “You’re not hiding because of them.”
“No,” she had said. “I’m going because I signed papers. That’s all.”
Now here she was, under hotel lights that made every flaw feel brighter, every glance sharper. Her blue dress was simple, old, and carefully pressed. She had worn pearl earrings that had belonged to her grandmother and low heels because she knew she could not survive one of Taylor’s glamorous events in shoes built for display instead of standing. Her hair was pinned back neatly. She had done everything possible not to invite notice.
It had not mattered.
One of the women near the bar tilted her head toward Maya and murmured something to the others. Another looked over openly, her mouth bending. Then came the laugh again, a little louder.
