Two A.M.

"Who is Celeste Ward?"

You ask it the second the elevator doors close on the penthouse that evening. Damian is at the window with his phone to his ear. He says, "I'll call you back," hangs up, and turns.

"You met her."

"She met me. In your lobby. She was very friendly, in the way a shark is friendly."

"That sounds like Celeste." He sets his phone face down on the glass table. "She's someone I was going to marry. She left. It was three years ago. That's all."

"She asked me why you really chose me."

The pause is so small you almost miss it. "And what did you say?"

"I said I was very persuasive." You cross your arms. "Is there a reason I should know about? Something she knows that I don't?"

"Rule Four."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer the contract requires." His voice doesn't rise. It never seems to rise. "She'll try to rattle you because rattling people is what she does for a living. Don't let her."

"You keep saying that. Don't let your grandmother. Don't let Celeste. Who's actually on my side, Damian?"

He looks at you for a long moment. The city glows behind him, gold and indifferent.

"I am," he says. "I just don't explain myself."

And he walks out of the room.

You can't sleep. It's becoming a habit.

At two in the morning you give up and go in search of water. The kitchen is dark except for the blue glow of the refrigerator, and standing in front of it, barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt, is your husband.

He is eating cereal directly out of the box.

You both freeze.

"I can explain," he says.

"Please don't. I want to remember this exactly as it is."

He looks at the box in his hand. It's a sugary kind with a cartoon bear on the front. He looks back at you. "Theo left it here."

"Sure he did."

"It's a security risk. I'm disposing of it."

"One handful at a time. Very thorough."

The corner of his mouth moves. It's the closest you've seen to a real smile, and in the refrigerator light, with his hair messy and no suit, he looks younger. Tired. Like a person.

You climb onto a stool. After a second he slides the box across the counter. You take a handful.

"Do you ever sleep?" you ask.

"Four hours. Five on holidays."

"That's not healthy."

"Neither is cereal at two a.m., and yet here we both are." He leans on the counter, forearms on the marble. "Why are you awake?"

"My mom's surgery is Tuesday. Every time I close my eyes I see the monitors." You don't know why you're telling him the truth. Maybe because it's dark. "And this place is so quiet. I'm used to Jess snoring through the wall and the N-Judah going by."

"It's soundproofed."

"I know. That's the problem. It feels like being underwater."

He's quiet for a while. Then he reaches over and taps the screen on the wall, and somewhere hidden speakers begin to play something low and soft: rain on a tin roof, and very faintly, a train.

You laugh. "You have a train setting?"

"I have every setting." He doesn't meet your eyes. "My mother couldn't sleep in silence either."

It's the second time he's mentioned her. You don't push. You've learned already that he's like a deer at the edge of a field; move too fast and he's gone.

"Thank you," you say instead.

"Go to bed, Ava." He puts the box back in the cupboard. "You have a stylist at ten and I'm told she's terrifying."

The stylist is named Paloma and she is, in fact, terrifying.

She arrives with two assistants and three rolling racks and spends the first ten minutes walking around you in silence while you stand in the middle of the living room in a robe. Theo Park is sprawled on the sofa eating grapes, because apparently he lives here when he's bored.

"He said she has to look like she belongs in the room," Paloma announces. "But also, quote, 'not like a trophy.' So I am confused. All men want a trophy."

"Damian doesn't," Theo says. "Damian wants a weapon."

"Thanks," you say.

"Compliment! It's a compliment." Theo pops a grape. "Okay. Tonight. Quick briefing, because he won't do it. Pierce Holloway will be very nice to you. He's always nice. That's how you know he's eating you. Preston Albright might be there."

"Great."

"Damian already made sure Preston sits at the far end of the table, next to a man who only talks about yacht insurance. It's a punishment." Theo's grin fades. "The one to watch is Richard."

"The uncle."

"The uncle. He'll be warm. He'll pour your wine. He'll tell you embarrassing stories about Damian at fourteen." Theo sits up. "Richard has been on Arclight's board since day one, because the family put in the first money. He thinks he made Damian. And he's been taking a lot of lunches with Holloway lately."

"Does Damian know?"

"Damian knows everything. That's his whole problem." Theo looks at you with an odd kind of hope. "He doesn't let anybody carry anything for him. Never has."

Paloma claps. "Enough! The dress."

It's midnight blue silk, simple and devastating, cut close and falling straight to the floor, with a low back. Paloma sweeps your hair up. One of the assistants does your makeup in eleven minutes flat. When they finally turn you toward the mirror, you don't recognize yourself for a full second.

"Oh," Theo says quietly. "He's going to be so annoyed."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

At seven the elevator opens. Damian steps out in a black tuxedo, fastening his watch, already talking. "Marcus has the car downstairs, we need to leave in..."

He looks up.

He stops.

The sentence never finishes. He stands in the doorway with one hand still on his watch clasp, and his gray eyes go over you slowly, from the bare shoulders to the hem and back, and something happens in his face that you've never seen before. It looks almost like pain.

Theo coughs into his fist. "Told you."

Damian doesn't seem to hear him. He crosses the room, stops in front of you, and very carefully, as though you might break, tucks one loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"Well?" you say. Your voice comes out unsteady. "Do I look like I belong in the room?"

"You look," he says, and stops. His jaw works. "Acceptable."

"Acceptable."

"Very." He offers his arm. Up close you can smell cedar and something colder, like rain on stone. His voice drops so only you can hear. "Rule Three, Ava. Public affection only when necessary."

"I remember."

"Tonight," he says, "it's going to be necessary."