JACKSON

"You couldn't have done better? Honestly?"

Sitting across from me in the study, my mother's eyes are two daggers. I know she's unhappy with me, but I'm not all too pleased with her this morning, either. She came over to have coffee at the break of dawn, while the house was still silent. Antonio is busying himself somewhere, and my new wife has made herself scarce. Whether she's sleeping or doing something else, I can't be sure.

"Watch your tone," she says, setting her mug down. "When did you become so entitled?"

"Since you raised me this way," I say, leaning back in the chair. "It's not like you have much of a counterargument, anyway. She's so…" I raise my lip for effect. "Common."

Mother shakes her head. "You disgust me sometimes, you know," she says. "When you behave like your father's son."

I laugh incredulously. "That's rich," I say. "Coming from the person who won't think about the poor parts of the city, let alone breathe in them. Please don't make me laugh, mother. It's not worth it."

"I'm not sure you know how," she says.

"It's a shame, my tutors never got around to that," I say. "But, I digress. You're saying you couldn't find anyone with more class? Who holds themselves a bit higher?"

She squints, scrutinizing me in the way I dislike so much. "For your information, son," she says. "Hiring April Kepner was the best decision any of us could have made. And, of course, no one else but me would've made it. Don't you understand? Her mother already works for us, and they're poorer than dirt. You couldn't begin to wrap your pretty little mind around how poor they are, so don't bother trying. You'd strain yourself."

I scoff and roll my eyes.

"They won't back out for anything," she says, leaning forward. "What would one of your wealthy little friends have as a token in this game? Not a thing." She crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. "The Kepner family has everything to lose. Their livelihood banks on the fact that Miss April stays here, happily married to the heir. They can't survive without our money. It disappears, and the two little ones are good as dead." She gives me a look. "And you might not know a thing about trust, but I do. And I trust this family to follow through with our arrangement. If I didn't, you wouldn't be betrothed to a sweet little redhead. Believe me, son. When I say I know what's best for you and your name, I mean it."

I don't have much to say in response, so I set my cup down and stand up from the armchair. She watches me rise with a knowing look, and gives a slight nod of her head.

"You don't run this house," I say, my voice cool and calm. "You're under my roof now."

"I may not run this one," she says. "But I run plenty others, and I hold more power than you can imagine. I allow you to govern your life, Jackson. Don't make the mistake of thinking otherwise."

I scoff and throw her a sidelong glance. "I'm almost 26, mother. You're kidding yourself."

All she nods is curtly nod, eyebrows raised. I can't stand when she acts like this - so superior. Given it's her default setting, it's the main reason we don't spend much time together. Our interactions usually occur through liaisons or over the phone. I can't stomach her for much more.

"If you'd kindly leave me and my business alone," I say, standing stiffly behind the chair. "I'd greatly appreciate it."

"By your business, do you mean your wife?" she asks, tipping her head to the side.

I clear my throat. I hadn't meant that - my wife continues to slip my mind. But my mother doesn't need to know that.

"Precisely," I say. "And since you've made it clear there was no other choice but yours, we can drop the subject." I set my jaw. "From here on out, what happens between my wife and me will stay between us."

"That is, if you decide to acknowledge her existence," my mother says, coolly.

"I'm on the way to wake her now," I say. "We have a busy day ahead."

"Have a lovely time," she says, standing now as well. "I'll be looking forward to seeing the photos."

I don't watch her leave. Instead, I turn and make my way towards the east wing of the house, where my wife decided to claim her territory in a guest room that would've gone unused otherwise. When we arrived, I hadn't given the slightest thought to our sleeping arrangements or her level of comfort. It doesn't bother me that she'd rather not sleep in the same bedroom, but the prospect of Antonio finding out isn't ideal.

Antonio was my grandfather's right hand, and his family has been serving ours for nearly three generations. He's been around since before I was born, and has watched me grow into the man I am today. He's reliable, but in no way trustworthy. At certain points in time, information has leaked about our family - nothing too detrimental, luckily - that seemed impossibly secretive. All signs pointed to Antonio, the only one privy to the inner workings of our lives, but no proof was ever dug up. My grandfather always insisted he'd never do such a thing, but I disagree. It's like he's in the walls, always watching, always waiting for something to go wrong, so he can sell information to whatever media source he can.

Because of this, it's imperative that he stay in the dark about my marriage arrangement. The fact that my wife and I are bonded by a marriage of opportunity is on a need-to-know basis - being that only myself, my mother, Callie, my wife, and her mother know. For everyone else, it will stay under wraps. Even the people working in our home. To them, we must seem happily married, so in love that we couldn't wait another day to make it official.

Of course, the little redhead isn't making things easy. She doesn't understand the gravity of the situation; that's become very clear. She wouldn't be behaving in such a hardheaded manner if she did. Money matters in this world, especially the one she now lives in. She has to learn to work the game, or else she'll ruin everything for both of us. Her family will return to living in poverty, and I'll never see either halves of the money my grandfather left to start my empire.

It's not clear yet, the goal of this fortune, except for the expected. Of course, I'd never live any other way than I do now. But I feel the need to do something else with it, to make something of my powerful name rather than just be someone the public knows for no real reason. Jackson Avery is, in fact, a household name. Especially in Chicago, where I'm a well-known socialite. When I show up somewhere, everyone shows up. With money, comes status. And with status, comes notoriety.

My wife will have to learn to shoulder that weight, too. She'll have to hold her own. I didn't get married with the intent to teach her to swim. That's not my job, and I'll make that very clear. If she can't keep up with my social life, then this arrangement simply won't work. And she has too much at stake, or so I've learned, for it not to work.

I'm sure, with the help of the money I'll soon be coming into, I'll find my direction. Over anything, to get my mother to stop saying I'm 'directionless' with no motivation. I have plenty of motivation, just not for anything she demands I have it for. I have no interest in joining her world of politics, and that won't change. She can't stand that I won't follow in her footsteps, but - like she said just moments ago - I am my father's son. Neither of us were cut out for that life. He found his passion in making art and selling it - he was a wonderful, prolific painter before he died when I was fourteen. I've never tried my hand at it, and I don't plan on it. Imagining myself even attempting his caliber is laughable.

Once I get near the bedroom that my wife claimed as her own, I notice the door cracked open. Assuming she must not be inside, I push it further to find I'm wrong. I'm surprised, though - sleeping with the door open is unheard of. To me, it would be a violation of privacy. I don't need the help snooping to see what I do behind closed doors. She apparently has no such mindset.

The door doesn't creak when it swings and therefore, she doesn't stir. Her suitcase still sits on the foot of the bed, along with that small blue thing she was so protective over yesterday. I still can't discern what it is, but I have no interest. The little trinkets and knickknacks sitting atop her dresser are cheap and unmeaningful; they ruin the aesthetic of an otherwise pristine room.

She's lying on her side, curled into a ball and wearing pajamas that don't match. A pair of yellow drawstring shorts cover the tops of her pale legs, and a baggy t-shirt dwarfs her upper half. Her hands are tucked by her face with her lips pushed out, and a mop of fiery curls lies in a nest behind her. She looks peaceful, but I don't watch her for more than a second. I move my gaze to the clock, where I see that it's a bit past 8. Something tells me she's never gotten to sleep in before.

I open my mouth to say something, to rise her, but no words come. I don't think I want to wake her, and I tell myself it's because I'm enjoying the peace and quiet of my own home for the first time. I don't need her trailing after me in a cloud of dust, asking questions I have no patience to answer. The longer she sleeps, the less time I have to spend with her, which is all the better for me.

I shut the door all the way and it makes a soft clicking sound. I exit the east wing and head towards the basement, where the entertainment is. But, unfortunately, I run into Callie along the way.

"Avery," she says, nodding politely.

"Torres," I respond.

I expect only a passing greeting, but I'm not that lucky. She stops in her tracks and assumes I'll do the same, so I have no other choice.

"How's married life treating you?" she asks.

I sigh inwardly, but not externally. "Fine," I answer.

"Just fine?" she says, eyebrows raised. "You're not over the moon with wedded joy?"

"Very funny," I say.

Callie Torres has been my personal assistant for almost five years, so we have a certain rapport and closeness. I know when she's kidding, though I never laugh at her jokes. We're comfortable enough for her to be able to poke and prod at me, though it's less than amusing. She knows she can get away with it because she's been loyal to our family for years.

"Where is your tiny beloved, anyway?" she says.

"Still asleep," I respond.

She shoots me a look. "Don't you think it's time you woke her?"

"Why?" I ask.

"Because it's what married people do," she says. "And I heard from Antonio, the secret agent, that you two didn't sleep in the same room last night. Let alone the same bed. She's staying in an entirely different wing." She crosses her arms, shifts her weight to one hip. "If you want to convince everyone in this house, you're doing a piss-poor job."

"It was her choice," I say. "What am I supposed to do, force her?"

"Yes."

"She doesn't understand," I say, gesticulating with my hands. "She doesn't understand how important this is."

"Well, make her," Callie says. "Your public is watching you like a hawk, and there are always eyes on the inside. And those are much more dangerous than the ones out there."

"I know," I say. "Believe me, I'm fully aware of that fact."

"Then do better," she insists.

"She should be allowed to sleep in," I say.

Callie scoffs. "Don't play like you care."

"My wife deserves her beauty rest," I say.

"'Your wife,''" she retorts. "Do you even know her name?"

"Of course I do," I say, then wave her off. "I've had enough. I won't be spoken to like this any further."

"You sound like a child," she says, shaking her head. "Sometimes, I wish you could hear yourself."

…

I don't follow orders, and that's not up for debate. So, I let my wife sleep in for as long as she wants. I'm not sure when she wakes, because I stay sequestered in my wing until the sun goes down and I receive a few invites to head into the city. I can't think of anything better to get me out of this house, so I gladly accept.

I call Antonio to bring the dry cleaning, and he dutifully hangs up the garment bags while I get the shower started.

"Are you headed out tonight, Mr. Avery?" he asks, voice level and unaffected as it usually is.

"Yes," I say, lingering shirtless in the open area of the bathroom.

"Will your wife be accompanying you?"

I open my mouth to say that no, she won't, but in that moment I see why he asked. The small redhead just walked by the door, dressed in casual loungewear, arms crossed over her chest. She peeked in for merely a second and disappeared again, but that hair is impossible to miss. My mother couldn't have picked anyone with a more conspicuous appearance.

"I…" I stammer, then compose myself. "Yes, she will."

"I'll be sure she knows, sir."

"Thank you, Antonio."

I get in the shower and grit my teeth, balling my fists over the interaction that just transpired. The last thing I want is for her to come along - tonight was supposed to be carefree, a break from the pretending, but now it'll be a show on a show. Having her by my side forces me to act as a husband and she a wife. That's not the sort of 'night out' I imagined.

I get out of the shower a while later and almost jump back in with shock. She's standing right there, still in those awful clothes, just staring at me.

"Jesus Christ," I say, turning my head violently to the side. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting," she says, and her voice throws me off. I'd forgotten what it sounds like over such an extended period of silence, and it's refreshing. It's light, higher than what I usually hear, and airy. She's unassuming in every sense; she embodies the word.

"For what, exactly?"

"For you," she says, eyes wide and doe-like. In the excellent lighting of the bathroom, it's clear to see they're a deep, emerald green. Her pupils are dilated, though, so there's only a sliver of color.

"May I ask why?"

"Antonio said you'd help me find something to wear," she says, then nods towards the massive walk-in closet. "In the closet. Our shared closet."

It dawns on me, then. Of course, that would make sense. Given the assumption that a married couple would share a room, there's no doubt our new wardrobes would be split in one place.

"Oh," I say. "Right."

"I don't have anything of my own," she says. "So, I hope you don't mind if I borrow something for tonight."

"It's not borrowing," I say, a bit brusquely. "You own these things now. Please, have the wherewithal to remember that."

"Oh," she says, very meekly. "Okay."

I shoot her a look, holding the towel in place around my waist. Her hair is a mess, still crimped from the style it was in yesterday. There's old makeup smudged on her face, and her clothes are dirty and wrinkly.

"Get cleaned up," I say. "And I'll find something for you to wear."

"Okay…" she says, so quiet I almost don't hear.

"Top-of-the-line shampoos and conditioners are stocked in the master shower for you, madam," Antonio says, and his sudden appearance makes both of us jump. "I ordered them specifically for you."

"Oh," she says, shoulders caving as she turns to look at the butler.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was doing this on purpose. But his face tells me nothing; it's as blank as ever.

"So, should I… should I shower in here?" she asks, looking between the two of us. "I don't… I don't know. Wherever you want me."

"A husband and wife should share a master bathroom, should they not?" Antonio asks, letting his eyes rest on me for a long moment. He's getting on my last nerve. "I'll have the cleaning staff move your things to the west wing while you're out, madam. I understand the day was long and taxing yesterday. You couldn't have been expected to find it and get settled." He smiles tightly. "But I shouldn't want the married couple separated any longer."

"Th-thank you," she stutters, wringing her hands. "That's very kind of you, Antonio."

After that, he walks away with purpose, and she turns towards me looking scared out of her mind.

"He can't have reason to be suspicious," I say, and leave it at that before turning my back. "Don't worry. I won't look at you."

She slowly spins to face the shower, struggling for a moment before finally turning it on. I hear the water spray onto the tile and glance to the long mirror, where I catch sight of her undressing. I only let my eyes stay for a moment - I told her I wouldn't look - but I can't help noticing what's in front of me.

When she strips off her shirt, I'm able to count nearly every rib showing through her back. Her shoulder blades jut out like birds' wings, and her spine protrudes in a way I've never seen - and I've seen plenty of naked women. She's not only skinny, she's close to being emaciated.

I quickly turn away, stomach toiling with words I should say. I wait for the screen glass door to shut and for her to disappear inside the shower, then take a few steps closer.

I clear my throat, but she doesn't respond. I try again, then notice the sound of the water change as she steps out from under the stream. Before I know it, her head comes out sopping wet with little rivulets of water running down her face. I notice, for the first time, that she's somewhat pretty in a demure sort of way.

"I have a name, you know," she says. "If getting my attention is what you're trying to do." She glares at me and tries to seem tough. I resist the urge to laugh. "You haven't said my name a single time. It's April," she insists.

I'm taken aback by her candor. "My apologies," I say, though the words are thin and we both know it. "But I couldn't help wondering if you'd eaten since arriving here."

We haven't been in the house long, but I've had plenty of meals already. I don't miss them, not ever. So, the concept of going without is a strange and foreign one to me.

"Why?" she asks.

I take a pause before answering. "Because this is your home, too," I say, forcing the words. "The food is there for your consumption whenever you please."

She doesn't say anything for a while, but I stay where I am - half-dressed and waiting for a response.

"I haven't," she says.

"Why not?" I shoot back.

"I'm used to being hungry," she says, casually, like the words mean nothing. "I guess it just slipped my mind."

I scoff. "It slipped your mind that people should eat three meals a day?"

Her voice comes quieter when she says, "You make that sound so easy."

"Well, it is," I say. "You ring for the chef and he'll make you whatever you want. And I mean whatever. Lobster, quiche, pasta… quesadillas, toast, I don't know. Anything. I don't want you to skip meals anymore. It's not healthy. You need to put on some weight."

"What do you mean, I need to?" she snaps.

"Exactly what I said," I retort. "Why would my supposedly healthy wife look like she's being starved?"

"I do not look like that."

I open my mouth to continue the argument, but think better of it. I close my lips and shake my head, then turn to return to the closet. "Please, just eat," I say. "And finish up quickly. Callie will come to help you get ready."

…

By the time we're ready to leave, I'm in an Armani suit and April is dressed in Saint Laurent. It's one-shouldered, black, and covered in subtle sequins. Her hair is tossed into an updo and her makeup has been done professionally, but she can barely stand upright in her high heels.

"Hold my arm," I say, using a sharp tone as she wobbles. I can't stand to see her without poise; I'll get eaten alive for sponsoring such behavior. "And do not let go."

"I don't like being ordered around," she says. "I have a mind of my own. You might not be familiar with that concept."

I turn my head to look at her, baffled. "Where do you get off talking to me like that?"

She narrows her eyes, her beautifully done-up eyes. "It doesn't feel good, does it?" she says. "Being belittled."

I don't entertain her statement. Instead, I lead the way at a brisk clip to the car, and help her inside first. The divider is rolled up, so as the the driver backs out of the driveway, we're kept in cool silence.

She looks out the window, hands clasped in her lap and knees pressed firmly together. I can't help staring at her legs - now that they're lotioned and she's wearing heels, they look entirely different than they did earlier. Her presence isn't so small and quiet anymore. She might not know it, but she commands a room. It might have something to do with the outfit giving her a confidence boost. Anything would be a step up from that awful loungewear.

I clear my throat, but she doesn't acknowledge me. I see her eyes flit over, but her head doesn't move. Then, I remember our exchange in the bathroom.

"April," I say, and she looks at me willingly with a fake smile painted on her lips. It comes nowhere near reaching her eyes. "You're my wife."

She holds up her left hand and wiggles her fingers, flashing the huge ring I had made for her. It's hulking on her delicate hand, and I can't help but feel a sense of pride over it.

"I'm very aware," she says.

"I mean, this is everything now," I say. "We're going out in public. We're married. We have no other choice but to act like it."

"I won't be acting like anything if you expect me to be dragged around all night," she says, and my face heats up with anger.

"Do you know what I'm doing for you?" I bellow, which makes her jump as my voice fills the small area of the car. "I took your family off the goddamn streets."

She comes closer, leaning in, the fear having passed. "And I made you a married man," she says. "Where would your inheritance go if I walked away?" She sits back and shakes her head. "You need me as much as I need you. So, don't go painting me as the poor, little victim. I'm doing just as much for you as you are for me. And you're the one who asked. I didn't want any of this."

"You didn't want your siblings lifted out of poverty?"

"This!" she shrieks, gesturing up and down with one hand. "A domineering husband and a life in the 1%."

I clench my jaw and back off, seeing as her chin has begun to wobble and her eyes have grown glassy. The last thing I need from her is tears. I have no idea how to console a woman.

"I plan on being good to you," I say, trying my best to sound genuine because I want to mean it. I'm just not sure how to go about it. "If you'll return the favor."

"Of course I'll return it," she says, trying to hide her sniffles by facing away the other way. The watery tone of her voice isn't a very good camouflage, though. "I'm a good person."

She looks at me with just her eyes, hooded and guarded now. The expression is enough to let me know she doesn't think the same of me, and I wonder if she's right. Everyone else in my life would agree, and always has. Except for my father, but he doesn't count anymore. He's dead.

I don't know how to convince her otherwise, though.

"I'm your husband," I say. "I'll be good to you." We pull up to the venue, where camera flashes are already blitzing outside. "Now, take my arm."

She frowns, lowering her eyebrows again. So, I amend my statement.

"Please."

…

I wouldn't label myself as a person who has 'friends.' I have connections. I see the same people in a lot of the same places, and we're friendly with each other. We drink together, party together, but I don't ever see them outside of the club scene.

But tonight, they'll be introduced to April. And since they pull a significant amount of weight in the social scene as well, it's important they believe what we've done is legitimate. If they don't, it's as bad as the word being sold directly to the media.

She clings to me like the moment she lets go, she'll be washed out to sea. With both arms wrapped around mine, her grip is tighter than what I imagined she'd be capable of.

"I don't like them," she says, gravitating even closer to me as we approach my group of people.

"You haven't met them yet," I point out. "Don't make snap judgments."

"It's not a snap judgment, it's a fact," she says. "I don't like the way they're looking at me."

"They're not looking at you in any way," I say, keeping the eye roll to myself as we approach. We're only steps away from them, there's no space for any further conversation.

"Jackson Avery!" Owen Hunt says, welcoming me with open arms.

Standing with him is his girlfriend Cristina Yang, Meredith Grey and her husband Derek Shepherd, and Alex Karev and his fiance Jo Wilson. I see these people frequently, yet I don't know much of anything beneath the surface. I don't have the desire to, really.

"Nice to see you," Meredith says, settling her eyes on April without trying to be subtle. "And who might this dashing young lady be?"

"This," I say, unwinding my arm from April's only to wrap it around her shoulders. "Is my wife, April."

All of their eyes go wide. "Wait a second. Did you say 'wife?'" Owen says.

"I can't believe you guys didn't hear about this," Jo says. "Didn't you see the spread in People?"

"I didn't," Derek says.

"Well, it was on the cover. So, I don't see how you idiots missed it," Cristina says, then extends a hand for April. It takes her a moment to register, but April shakes it after a moment. "I'm Cristina Yang," she says. "Interloper. Among the rest of them, you'll find 'dumb,' 'dumber,' and a few variations of 'dumbest.'"

April giggles - softly, but it's there. I hadn't heard her laugh before now. "Interloper?" she asks.

"Yeah, I don't belong," Cristina says, off-handedly. "Owen plucked me out of obscurity. I was a bartender. He apparently couldn't stay away." She rolls her eyes. "So, how'd you two lovebirds come to be?"

I turn my head towards April, then cup her cheek in one hand. "It was simple, really," I say. "I took one look at her and knew right then… God is a woman."

April rolls her eyes just as dramatically as Cristina had, and everyone else groans and shakes their heads. "Come on," Alex mumbles.

"What?" I say. "I can't help that I'm in love. You've all been on me to settle down for forever now. So, shouldn't you be happy for me?"

"It's like she appeared out of nowhere," Meredith says, eyes glinting. "Did you pick out a mail-order bride or something, Jackson?"

April's body tenses, but I rub her shoulder subtly to calm her down. She relaxes a bit, but not by much.

"Don't be crass," I say. "I've kept our relationship under the radar, and we're finally ready to go public. Right, babe?" I ask, turning to her again.

"Right, sweetheart," she says, and the term of endearment does anything but roll off her tongue. Instead, it tumbles into dead air and sticks there like a patch of glue. All of us catch it, but no one says anything.

Seizing the moment, I hold her chin in one hand and draw her face close to mine. I need to prove it to them - they need to believe me - and in order for that to happen, we have to seem somewhat natural. All of this has been very forced so far.

We kiss, and it's quick and chaste. When we pull apart, she meets my eyes fleetingly before darting hers away. I smile at my friends and tip my head towards April, but Jo scoffs and shakes her head.

"Kiss her like you mean it," she says. "What kind of husband are you, Avery? Seriously."

"That'd be inappropriate," I say. "She-"

"Why?" April cuts in. "I'm your wife, aren't I?"

I swivel to look at her, thoroughly surprised. With that comeback cracking out of thin air, I have no choice but to rise to the occasion. I turn to face her completely, wind my arms around her waist so I can grab two firm handfuls of her ass, then yank her closer with confidence. Her small body complies easily, melting against mine as she drapes her arms around my neck, and I open my mouth against hers just to see what she'll do.

She cooperates, leaning into me and touching my tongue with hers, sighing hot breath into my mouth and whimpering with satisfaction when I squeeze her ass harder. She pulls my head down and angles hers to one side, parting her lips further, and I'm about to get hard before the crowd has had enough.

"Alright, Jesus, we get it," Alex says. "Can we go fuckin' dance, or what?"

April and I break apart, then spend a moment just looking at each other. Her lips are red and puffy, kissed swollen, and the expression in her eyes is lit and untamed. I can't imagine mine look much different, since my heart won't slow down.

"Sure," I say, nodding towards the source of the heavy bass. "But let's get drinks first."

…

After I'm a few drinks in, I lose track of April and can't find it within myself to worry about her whereabouts. I'm sure she's fine, wherever she is, and convince myself of that every time she crosses my mind. I'd tried to get her a drink but she declined, though I said they made the best in the city here. Still, she spurned me. She lingered for a bit, but after I spent a good while in boisterous conversation with my friends, she disappeared.

When it's time to dance, though, I need a partner. Feeling a bit looser because of the alcohol, I try and seek out April by scanning the club, and luckily her hair is a dead giveaway. I make a beeline towards where she stands alone, and when she sees me coming her shoulders hunch up near her ears.

"I don't want to talk to you," she says, pivoting so her back faces me.

"I wanna dance with you," I say, resting a hand on her lower back. She doesn't respond, so I keep trying. "Listen to the music. It'll be fun."

She keeps her head low, still not saying a word, so I try harder.

"When's the last time you actually had fun?" I ask. "When's the last time you danced with somebody?"

Her eyes lift then, as does her chin. Her arms uncross, and her eyes find mine in the low light. She doesn't need to respond with words.

"That's what I thought," I say. "Follow me."

As soon as we reach the floor, a remix of a popular song comes on and a smile finds its way to her face. A real smile, too. It lights up her eyes and all of her teeth show, and I can't help but mirror the expression. It's contagious, especially when I'm buzzed. She jumps up and down with uninhibited joy, now much better at staying on her feet in those heels. She lets her hair get messy, and I find that I like seeing her this way - unwound a bit. Breathing freely.

When the song changes to something sexier and slower, she stops bouncing. Her eyes catch on mine and she starts to head off the dance floor, but I stop her with two hands around her waist.

"Wha…" she stammers.

"Let's dance," I say.

She's hesitant, but I don't think she wants to leave. She wants to stay, but she doesn't think it's her place. That much is easily discernible in her eyes alone. So, I do my best to make her feel like she belongs.

As the song gets hotter and heavier, I flip her around so her back presses against my chest, her ass against my crotch. She moves with the rhythm in a way I hadn't expected she would, and her hair comes tumbling out of its updo to wind in curls around her neck and shoulders.

I wrap my arms low on her waist, hands wide over the expanse of her belly, and I don't let any space come between our bodies. I gyrate my hips against hers and she pushes back with equal intensity, and it doesn't take long before I lose control and tuck my face into the side of her neck.

The thump of the bass is swimming in my veins at this point, and I'm completely lost in the way both the music and April feel. The curve of her ass is perfect, her neck smells amazing, and I bet if I opened my mouth, her skin would taste amazing, too. I close my eyes and let myself imagine it, but as my mind floats off, she jolts away from me. She pulls apart my hands on her stomach and takes clumsy steps forward, turning around with shock written all over her face.

It only takes me a moment to realize that I popped a boner, and she most likely felt it. I scared her off, and as I stand there deducing what happened, she bolts yet again.

"Fuck," I whisper to myself, leaving the dance floor too. It's about time we got out of here.

It takes me longer to find her this time, where she hovers by the bar. I collect myself and approach her in a nonthreatening way, but she still looks at me like I plan to pounce on her.

"Would you like to leave?" I ask.

She nods vigorously, and I nod towards the exit. We walk side-by-side, not touching, and she's even more tense than when we arrived. Her arms are crossed again, shoulders hunched, steps tiny and calculated. I don't bother looking her way, knowing she doesn't want that.

It's still a shock when the cameras go off, though, and the cool night air hits us. April shields her eyes with one hand and I lead the way by stepping in front of her. As soon as we're inside the car, I expect to hear a sigh of relief or something of the like from her, but she's silent the whole way home.

And it's only when we get there do I remember we're supposed to sleep in the same bed tonight.

"Look, you can have it," I say, shaking my head as we both head upstairs. Before that, there had still been no conversation between us. "I don't need to sleep with you. I can use a room nearby; it'll be fine. I would never ask…" I shake my head, knowing I can't finish that sentence. I've already asked plenty of her - too much. "Just take it."

"I can't do that," she says. "It's your bed. I can go back to the east wing, or whatever, and use the room from before."

"No," I say. "The east wing is for guests, and that's too obvious for Antonio. Just take the bed, please, April. We can talk about it further tomorrow."

For a moment, I expect her to continue arguing. But instead, she concedes. I leave her alone while she changes into pajamas, and only go in for my own after she's left the bathroom to lie down.

I don't mean to listen in on her phone conversation, but it's practically impossible when her teary voice cuts through the otherwise soundless house.

"...hate it here, mom. I miss home. I miss you guys. I don't want to be away from you anymore."

I lift my head and stare at my reflection, wondering if I'm a monster - her captor, the one who won't her leave. But then, I remember all the good my money is doing for her family. My mother said just this morning that the two little ones would be dead if not for us. April is being ungrateful, and I won't let her guilt me into feeling bad over a favor. That's below me.

…

In the morning, I'm woken up by Callie's voice as my door slams open.

"Wake up, Avery," she says. "And smell the failure."

I frown, squinting against the harsh light, and turn over. I see Callie standing at the foot of my bed with a magazine in her hand. But soon, she throws it down and I know exactly what she's talking about when I see the front cover.

BRAND NEW MRS. AVERY - ALLOWED OUT OF HER IVORY TOWER?

"Shit," I say, taking a good look at the paparazzi shot on the cover. It's me and April last night, exiting the club. We're both haggard, and she looks like she either just stopped crying or is about to at any second. We aren't touching, aren't smiling, and she seems afraid over anything.

"Yeah, shit. Shit is right," Callie says, picking up the magazine and shaking it. "You need to do better! These goddamn magazines are going crazy, saying you've imprisoned this innocent little woman against her will." She gives me a hard look. "If you don't want this to fall through, you need to actually try with her."

"She won't let me!" I insist, knowing how petulant I sound. "Everything I do, she-"

Callie holds up a hand. "If these excuses are worth half a billion dollars, I'd love for you to continue," she says.

I shut my mouth.

"All I'm saying," I growl eventually. "Is that it's a two-way street."

"Then talk to her," Callie says, leaning forward to get closer to my face. "That's what she's here for."

That's not exactly the first thing on my to-do list, though I know it should be. After Callie leaves, I procrastinate for as long as possible before finding my way to the master bedroom where I figure April must still be sleeping.

She's awake when I peer inside the door, though, sitting cross-legged on the bed. She's freshly showered and smells good - and along with that, she's wearing pajamas from her new wardrobe. A matching pink and silky set.

I think I could get used to seeing her like this.

The look in her eyes is far from welcoming, though, when she notices my presence. I'm in no way tentative, but I take my time coming inside the room.

"Good morning," she says, icily.

"Good morning to you," I say. "I hope you slept well."

"I did, thank you," she says. "Did you?"

I nod, pausing while trying to figure out how to broach this subject. I come to the conclusion that there's no decent way about it - I just have to dive right in.

"The tabloids got a hold of our photos from last night," I say. "When we were leaving. They're going wild, accusing me of holding you hostage."

She quirks an eyebrow, and I know what she's thinking. She doesn't say it aloud, though.

"That can't happen, April," I say. "We have to do better. You have to let me treat you like my wife… you have to treat me like your husband. That was part of our agreement, you signed the contract. You aren't holding up your end of the deal."

With knitted-together eyebrows, she snarls, "You can't ignore me all night, then grope me when you get lonely!" she spits. "When you were sick of me, you brushed me off like you do to everyone else. Then, when you needed a warm body, you found me again. And you practically came all over my dress."

My eyes widen. That was the last thing I expected her to say. "I did not," I say.

"I felt you," she retorts, glowering. "I know what that is. I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were," I point out, then sigh. "Look, I am sorry for how last night transpired. You're right, I should've treated you better. And I will. But you can't disappear whenever you decide you don't want to play the role anymore. You made me look like an idiot on multiple occasions."

She chews her bottom lip and looks off to the side. "Fine," she says. "I won't. If you won't do what you did."

"I'll be better," I say.

"We can both be better," she adds.

I sigh and look at the floor. This might be the first time in my life where I don't have complete control over a situation. She has a pull over me I can't explain, and one I have no say in.

As if to demonstrate it, she says, "We should start by getting to know each other."