Page 87 of A Temporary Forever

Give a girl a whiplash, anyone?

“They have been jerking me around long enough. I’m sure a few more minutes won’t change much.”

“Caleb, this is your future career,” I protest as he pulls me up the stairs.

“And this will take only a moment.”

At the top, the hall splits to the right where our bedrooms are, and to the left where Mia’s room is across from a guest bedroom.

Caleb leads me away from our rooms, his hand warm around mine. He stops in front of the spare bedroom. “Have a look.”

I frown. “Are you moving me to a separatewing? You’ll still run into me, you know that, right? This place is enormous, but it’s not that huge.”

He scoffs, “Stop talking and open the door.”

What is so interesting in a spare bed—?

I gasp.

Mirrors cover one entire wall, reflecting the soft glow of the natural light streaming in from the large windows. A pristine wooden floor stretches out, inviting, begging for the touch of dancing feet.

The sound system tucked neatly into the corner completes the simplicity of the room. It’s all perfect, every detail thoughtfully arranged.

What was once a luxurious guest room has been transformed into a dancer’s haven.

My heart pounds against my ribcage while my eyes well up. “How? When? Why?” I can’t seem to form a coherent sentence.

“How? I hired people who came when you were at rehearsals.”

“How do you even coordinate a construction crewwith my schedule?” How does he even know my schedule?

He shrugs, leaning against the door frame. “Do you like it?”

I twirl around, the wooden panes smooth under my feet. “But why?”

“You mentioned the carpet in your room was a problem.”

“I could have practiced downstairs. You practically have a ballroom stretching in front of the elevator.”

“Sure. I love coming home to an eyeful of your ass, but I’m not bleaching the eyes of the concierge and delivery boys. Especially with all the deliveries we get.” He smirks.

His phone steals our attention.

“Fuck. I better take care of this.”

My fake husband walks away, leaving me in my new personal dance studio. The potent cocktail of emotions shuddering through me almost brings me to my knees.

Elation. Joy. Appreciation.

Shock. Confusion. Fear.

We’re just having fun.My mantra is becoming harder and harder to believe.

I’m drunk with all my conflicting feelings. Because I’m a performer, I can try to slip in and out of my fake wife's role. But that role feels lessand less fictional.

I glance around the room once more, unsure how to shake the foreboding feeling. Because my husband can disperse gestures of kindness like candy, but where does that leave me?

Am I a convenient lay?

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