They didn't dance. Obviously.
Annette wheeled Dereck away from the suffocating crowd, out through the French doors to the garden terrace. The night air was cool, a relief after the heat of the ballroom.
They were finally alone.
Annette dropped the smile instantly. She leaned against the stone railing, looking out at the dark gardens.
"Thank you for agreeing," she said.
Dereck adjusted his cuffs. "I didn't do it for you. I did it for the Trust."
"Honest. I like that," Annette said. She turned to face him.
"So, what's the plan?" Dereck asked, watching her closely.
"We stay married," she said. "You get your money. I get my safety."
"And when I die?" Dereck asked.
The question hung in the cool air.
Annette froze. "What?"
"Everyone says I'm dying. Isn't that why you picked me?" he pressed. His voice was smooth, lacking the rasp he used with his father.
Annette recovered quickly. "I picked you because you aren't Hank."
"And because you have a nice face," she added, deflecting.
Dereck chuckled darkly. "Don't get attached, sweetheart."
"I won't," she promised.
"I need to move my things to the West Wing tonight," she stated abruptly.
"Tonight? Impatient?" Dereck raised an eyebrow.
"Safety," she said. "Bernadine will try to poison my coffee tomorrow morning if I stay in the main house."
Dereck looked at her. He saw a flash of genuine fear in her eyes. It wasn't an act. She really knew what Bernadine was capable of.
"Fine," he said. "But stay out of my study. And the basement."
"Deal," she said. "I'll stick to the bedroom."
Dereck hid a smile at the accidental double entendre. "Let's go sign the papers."
They returned inside. The lawyer had the documents ready.
Hank watched from the shadows, holding a fresh drink, his eyes red and angry.
Annette signed with a flourish.
Dereck took the pen. His hand was steady. He signed Dereck Bolton.
The marriage was legal. The fate was sealed.
