Today, Killian woke me up and told me we were going shopping—
Well… I was going shopping.
He was just the escort. His words, not mine.
As surprising as it was, I couldn't bring myself to decline such a wonderful idea.
At least for a few hours, I could pretend things were normal.
Pretend I wasn't living my sister's life.
Pretend guilt wasn't crawling over my skin like a second layer of clothing.
Retail therapy? Yeah, I needed the hell out of it.
I got dressed in a light blue gingham midi dress with short puff sleeves and a square neckline, tied delicately with a small bow at the center. The bodice was fitted—which I absolutely loved—and the skirt flared gently, swaying with just the right amount of elegance.
A white eyelet lace trim danced at the hem, adding a subtle vintage charm I didn't know I needed. I paired it with white wedges that made me feel just girly enough without sacrificing comfort.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I almost believed it.
That I belonged in this body. In this dress. In this life.
Almost.
With a deep sigh, I stepped out of the room, the soft click of my wedges echoing against the marble floor as I made my way toward the living room.
Where Killian was waiting.
Where the performance would resume.
I could already picture him—impeccably dressed, looking effortlessly cold and expensive, scrolling through his phone like he had better things to do than wait for his wife.
His wife.
Not me.
But I had a role to play.
When I got to the living room, he barely looked up from his phone at first—but then his eyes lifted, and he stood.
Killian walked toward me like it was the most natural thing in the world, leaned in, and gave me a kiss.
This time, I didn't evade it.
I let him.
Let his lips press softly against mine like I was the woman he thought I was.
Because if I was going to sleep with this man…
I needed to get used to it.
Used to the feel of his mouth.
His touch.
His presence.
Even if every part of me was screaming inside.
Our trip from the house to the shopping plaza was a blur.
I was buried in my thoughts the entire ride, guilt curling around my spine like smoke.
Not that Killian noticed—he was glued to his phone the whole way, going from one call to the next.
Life of a billionaire, I guess.
When we finally pulled up, I stepped out of the car and took in the building before me.
La Belle Row was etched across the front in a bold, yet refined gold-lettered font—classy, subtle, and just the right amount of intimidating.
A valet approached immediately, but Killian waved him off. "We have a chauffeur," he said without glancing up.
The building screamed elegance. And money.
Quiet money. Old money. The kind that doesn't flaunt—it whispers.
Inside, the atmosphere was immaculate.
Polished marble floors. Warm lighting. A gentle hum of classical music playing somewhere above us.
The attendants moved like stylists at Fashion Week—attentive, graceful, smiling like they'd already judged your net worth.
Every boutique had its own vibe.
Loud, vibrant colors for the fashion extroverts.
Muted earth tones and tailored lines for the ones who drank matcha and wore linen.
This place… was heaven.
I guess I was so taken by the beauty of the place, by all the soft fabrics and warm lighting and price tags that looked like down payments, that I didn't hear him.
"Selena…
Selena…
Selena—"
I jumped, snapping out of my daze, heart skipping like I'd just been caught stealing.
Right.
I'm playing a role.
Not me.
Her.
I turned to him, blinking fast and forcing a smile. "Sorry, I was distracted."
His brows lifted slightly, amused or maybe curious. "You okay?"
God, that question again.
"Perfect," I lied smoothly.
"The attendant is asking what you think about the dress," Killian said, pulling me back to earth.
I blinked, following his gaze to the woman standing patiently beside me, holding up a stunning burgundy gown. It was sheer in all the right places, with a flowing silhouette that whispered elegance and power—the kind of dress that made you feel like a woman and a weapon all at once.
"I love it," I breathed, the words slipping out before I could remember I was supposed to be performing.
In that moment, I wasn't Serena pretending to be Selena.
I wasn't anyone's cover story.
I was just a girl in love with a beautiful dress.
She led me into the dressing room, and I stepped inside like I was walking into a portal.
Yes, I already knew I loved the dress.
But slipping it on?
Feeling the way the fitted bodice hugged my waist—the intricate detailing catching the light just enough—the delicate straps barely holding me together before cascading into that dramatic, trailing skirt?
Yeah.
I looked like a succubus.
The kind that steals hearts in five-inch heels and disappears into the smoke.
I turned slowly in front of the mirror, half-expecting flames to flicker at my feet.
It was dangerous.
It was divine.
It was nothing like me.
And that scared me a little.
I stepped out of the dressing room, the hem of the burgundy gown trailing softly behind me.
And there he was.
Waiting.
Killian, in all his effortless, infuriating glory—black shirt rolled at the sleeves, wristwatch gleaming, that unreadable expression on his face as he looked up.
"Hi…" I started, trying to sound breezy—like this was nothing. Like I wasn't burning under his gaze.
"What do you think? Should I buy it?" I added, tossing the question with a touch of her usual sass. Not mine.
Selena's.
His eyes raked over me slowly. Not in a crude way—but calculated.
Assessing.
Like he was trying to decide if I was still the same woman who left the house this morning… or someone new entirely.
And in that moment, I couldn't tell either.
Then he started walking toward me.
Not casually.
Not distractedly.
With purpose.
His gaze didn't drop from mine—not once—and something about the way his eyes flickered, slow and intense, made my breath catch in my throat. I couldn't help it—my feet moved a step back, my instincts screaming danger even though there were no claws or fangs involved.
Just a man.
But one who looked like he was on a mission.
And I was the target.
He stopped in front of me, close—too close—and before I could say anything, he reached out and pulled me into him.
Just like that.
And then—boom.
The fireworks exploded in my chest, in my spine, in the back of my mind that kept screaming this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong—
But then he dipped his head and kissed me.
Not a soft kiss.
Not a pretend kiss.
Not a husband doing his "dutiful" morning peck.
No—this was a real kiss.
The kind that felt like a velvet slap to my common sense.
The kind that sent heat rushing through places I'd locked down.
The kind that made me forget I was lying.
And I hate to admit it—but it was probably the best kiss of my twenty-seven years on earth.
God help me.
After what felt like forever, he finally pulled away.
I was breathless.
Panting softly like someone who didn't want it to end.
Because I didn't.
God help me, I didn't.
He stared down at me, eyes unreadable but lips curled just slightly, dangerously, like he knew exactly what kind of spell he'd just cast.
"You look ravenous, my queen," he murmured, voice low and thick with something that made my knees tremble.
And just like that, my heart skipped a beat.
Not out of fear.
But desire.
And I hated that.
"Why, thank you, dear," I replied smoothly, my voice barely betraying the storm behind my eyes.
I even managed a small smile.
Controlled. Perfect. Just the way Selena would.
But inside?
I was screaming.
My pulse was racing like I'd just been caught red-handed in a lie, because I had.
And yet… all I could think about was his lips.
This was getting out of control.
I was getting out of control.