Calla stood in the center of the living room, clutching the lapels of Christ's shirt. The fragments of her phone lay in the corner like a dead insect.
"I can't go," she whispered.
Christ didn't turn around. He was pouring himself a glass of water. "Why?"
"My dress. You ripped it. I can't walk out of here in your shirt. Francis will ask questions I can't answer."
Christ paused. He took a sip of water, then set the glass down. He picked up the hotel phone and punched a single button. He murmured something low and indistinct, then hung up.
"Wait," he said.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Two women in black suits rolled in a rack of clothing. It was like a portable fashion week. Chanel, Dior, Saint Laurent. All in her size.
"Mr. Carlson," one of the women said, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered. "The selection you requested."
Calla stared at the rack. There was easily fifty thousand dollars' worth of fabric there.
"I can't accept this," Calla said, her voice shaking. She looked at Christ. "Francis checks my accounts. He'll know I didn't buy these."
Christ waved the women away. The door clicked shut.
"I am your husband," Christ said, walking over to the rack and running a finger along a silk sleeve. "According to the state of Nevada, my assets are your assets. It's a legal obligation."
"It's a trap," Calla countered. "If I wear this, I owe you."
"You already owe me." He turned to her, his eyes scanning her bare legs beneath his shirt. His gaze flickered to the untouched pill on the table. "Take it, Calla."
The phone call had completely derailed her. She had been so terrified of Francis finding out that the small, silver packet had been forgotten. Now, under Christ's unwavering stare, she felt her face heat up. She walked over, ripped the foil, and dry-swallowed the pill. It tasted bitter. Like regret.
"About us..." she started, turning back to him. "I need... I need time. Francis is getting engaged to Annamarie. The family image is fragile right now. If we announce this..."
"You want an NDA," Christ interrupted. His lip curled in a sneer.
"I want a truce," Calla pleaded. "Just until things settle down. Please. Don't tell him yet."
Christ walked over to the sofa and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He looked like a king on a throne, deciding the fate of a peasant.
"A secret marriage," he mused. "Scandalous."
"Please, Uncle."
His eyes flashed at the word. "Don't call me that."
He was silent for a long moment. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound.
"Fine," he said finally. "I will keep our marriage a secret from Francis. For now."
Calla let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her shoulders slumped in relief.
"But," Christ stood up. He walked over to her, stopping inches away. He reached out and buttoned the top button of the shirt, his knuckles grazing her throat.
"Everything has a price, Calla. You know that."
"What's the price?" she whispered.
"Access," he said softly. "You are available to me. Whenever I want. Wherever I want. You answer my calls. You come when I summon you."
Calla felt a chill run down her spine. It was a deal with the devil.
"And if I'm with Francis?"
"Especially then," Christ's eyes glittered.
Calla looked at the clothes, then at the man who held the deed to her life. She had no choice.
"Deal," she said.
Christ patted her cheek. It was patronizing. Possessive.
"Good girl. Get dressed. The car is downstairs."
