A few more days slipped by, and life settled into a rhythm neither of them had expected.
Every weekday morning, Alexander left the penthouse before sunrise, his schedule beginning long before most of Pacifica Heights had finished breakfast.
Malissa rarely heard him leave.
She would wake to the quiet hum of a home that still didn't feel like hers.
Some mornings, she sketched until sunlight spilled across the living room floor. Other mornings, she simply sat by the window with a cup of tea, watching the city awaken beneath her.
Her scheduled prison calls with her father continued three mornings each week.
Those brief conversations had become something she quietly looked forward to.
Her mother, meanwhile, was improving steadily.
Instead of rushing to the hospital every day, Malissa had started spacing out her visits.
Not because she wanted to see her mother less.
But because ever since the photographs outside the hospital had spread across the internet, she couldn't shake the feeling that every visit risked drawing more unwanted attention.
Her mother deserved peace.
Not cameras.
Not strangers whispering outside her hospital room. So she visited when she could...
Quietly. Carefully.
The penthouse itself remained unusually calm.
There were no arguments.
No awkward conversations.
Most evenings, Alexander returned long after sunset.
They exchanged little more than polite greetings before retreating into separate parts of the apartment.
It was strange.
Living with someone yet barely knowing them.
...
"That concludes this morning's agenda."
The last executive rose from the chair opposite Alexander's desk.
"So we'll proceed with the Riverton acquisition?"
Alexander closed the file in front of him.
"Proceed."
"Yes, Mr. Marquez."
One by one, the executives filed out of the office.
The Head of Operations.
The Chief Financial Officer.
The General Counsel.
The heavy doors clicked shut behind the last person.
Silence returned.
Alexander stood, slipped off his charcoal suit jacket and draped it neatly over the coat stand beside his desk, positioned near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Without looking up, he loosened one cufflink.
Mike remained where he was, tablet already in hand.
"There are three remaining items for today, sir."
Alexander gave a slight nod.
"Your lunch meeting with the Hawthorne Foundation has been confirmed."
"Hm."
"The legal department has finalized the acquisition documents. They'll only require your signature."
"Fine."
Mike swiped once across his tablet.
"The Hawthorne Foundation Charity Gala takes place this Friday evening."
Alexander's movements paused for barely a second.
"Attendance has been confirmed by several board members, CEOs, and representatives from the city's leading foundations."
Mike looked up.
"Edward Whitmore has also confirmed his attendance."
Alexander finally met his gaze.
Neither man spoke for a moment.
Mike didn't need to explain further.
Instead, he simply added,
"He'll expect to see Miss Fisher with you."
Alexander already understood.
Edward Whitmore wasn't simply another distinguished guest.
He was one of the trustees overseeing his late mother's estate.
Appearances mattered. Consistency mattered.
His announcement at Victor Marquez's birthday celebration had bought him time.
Now that announcement had to withstand scrutiny.
"Make the necessary arrangements,"
Alexander said.
"Yes, sir."
Mike made a note.
"I've already informed the event organizers you'll be attending."
Alexander reached for another file.
The conversation was over.
...
The penthouse was unusually quiet that evening.
A documentary played softly on the television, though Malissa wasn't truly watching it.
She sat curled into one end of the sofa with a notebook balanced on her lap, absentmindedly organizing several loose fashion sketches she'd completed over the week.
The sound of the front door unlocking made her glance up.
Alexander stepped inside.
His tie had already been loosened.
He handed his car keys to one of the house staff before walking into the living room.
"You'll be attending an event with me on Friday."
Malissa blinked.
"...An event?"
"A charity gala."
She lowered her notebook.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
Alexander regarded her calmly.
"It's part of the agreement."
The words settled between them.
Of course they were.
She had signed a contract.
She'd attended his father's birthday.
She'd met his family.
Public appearances weren't optional.
Not anymore.
She let out a slow breath.
"...Alright."
Alexander gave a single nod.
"The stylist will arrive tomorrow afternoon."
"Stylist?"
"Mike will explain the details."
And just like that...
He walked away.
Malissa stared after him for several seconds before looking down at the sketches in her lap.
She suddenly felt as though another invisible line had been drawn between their two worlds.
...
The following afternoon proved exactly that.
Mike arrived shortly after lunch.
"Good afternoon, Miss Fisher."
She smiled politely.
"Good afternoon."
"The stylist should arrive within the hour."
She frowned.
"I thought I could just wear something simple."
"I'm afraid that's already been taken care of."
He handed her a tablet displaying the evening's itinerary.
"Gown fitting."
"Hair."
"Makeup."
"Accessories."
"Transportation."
Everything had already been scheduled.
Down to the minute. Malissa looked up.
"I don't get to choose?"
Mike offered a courteous smile.
"You'll certainly be consulted."
Somehow...
That wasn't reassuring.
She'd spent most of her life making every decision herself.
Now complete strangers were deciding what she'd wear... How she'd look...
Even when she'd leave the house.
Alexander's world functioned with an efficiency that felt almost unreal.
Nothing was spontaneous.
Everything was planned.
...
Across the city...
Helena Ashcroft accepted the cream-colored invitation from the household attendant.
She unfolded it with practiced elegance.
"The Hawthorne Foundation Charity Gala," she murmured.
Clarissa looked up from where she sat browsing a luxury fashion catalogue.
"Anything interesting?"
Helena's eyes moved down the guest list.
"Alexander will be attending."
Clarissa's attention sharpened instantly.
"...With her?"
Helena folded the invitation again.
"If Edward Whitmore is attending..."
"...Alexander won't have much of a choice."
Clarissa's jaw tightened.
She hated hearing Malissa mentioned as though her attendance beside Alexander had become expected.
Necessary. Legitimate.
Helena noticed the flicker of jealousy without raising her head.
"I already told you what to do."
Clarissa remained silent.
Helena finally looked at her.
"Use your head."
Nothing more. No lecture. No advice.
Just a reminder.
Clarissa lowered her gaze, but her fingers tightened around the edge of the catalogue.
She hadn't forgotten. Not for a second.
If Malissa refused to stumble...
She would simply have to help her fall.
...
Friday arrived sooner than Malissa expected.
By late afternoon, the penthouse transformed into a quiet flurry of activity.
The doorbell rang repeatedly.
Large black garment bags bearing the logos of prestigious fashion houses were carried upstairs.
Jewelry cases followed. Shoe boxes. Makeup kits. Hair equipment.
The staff moved with practiced efficiency, each person already knowing where everything belonged.
No one asked questions.
No one wasted time.
Standing in front of the bedroom mirror, Malissa watched as one garment bag was carefully unzipped.
A breathtaking evening gown emerged.
Elegant. Refined.
Beautiful enough to belong in a magazine.
She reached out, brushing her fingertips lightly across the fabric.
It didn't feel real.
Neither did any of this.
The room buzzed quietly behind her as preparations continued.
Yet she barely heard them.
Her eyes remained fixed on her own reflection.
Not because she was excited.
Not because she wanted this life.
But because in only a few hours...
She would once again step into the public eye.
Once again stand beside Alexander Marquez.
Once again become,
Alexander Marquez's girlfriend...
In the eyes of the entire world.