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We embraced, kissed cheeks, and sat down to pretend to eat for three hours. What we did while we pretended to eat was plan out a star-studded auction benefitting the Castelo Foundation, a charity my mother-in-law herself had started twenty-five years prior. It was a multi-functional charity, but it focused largely on funding cancer research.

“I’d love to see a runway show attached to this,” she told the board. “Now that we have two supermodels in the family, why not use that? Having us walk a runway together for our family charity would surely get the event more press. Are you game, Noura?”

“Of course,” I responded instantly.

I actually valued this part of my fake new life. While I doubted my presence did anything to add to the already well-established charity, it at least felt like I was contributing something. It felt purposeful, and I needed purpose.

From the luncheon I went directly to a photo shoot. I modeled thigh high tan suede boots and a cream cashmere sweater for several hours, went home, prepped for a gala, and was off again.

Rinse, repeat.

Busy, busy, busy. Just how I liked it.

I ran into my husband’s parents at the gala. We were photographed together, and I wondered when the headlines would start focusing on the fact that Calder Castelo’s fresh new wife was never, ever with her husband.

“You look lovely, as always,” my father-in-law told me after our photo op was finished.

He always looked so severe that even when he was being complimentary it came off coldly. Still, I thought I sensed a change in him. I wasn’t sure if it was wishful thinking, but I thought he was warming to me a little more with each meeting.

“You flatter me,” I told him shyly.

“Not at all,” he remarked back, his deep complexion turning a tad darker as he flushed. “It’s me that’s flattered to be escorting the two loveliest ladies at the ball.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think my father-in-law was starting to like me. It didn’t necessarily run in the family.

CHAPTER

SIX

I was backstage at a runway show. It was the following afternoon. I was mid-prep, scrolling through the blasted fake wedding pictures yet again—I’d saved them on my phone—when my cell screen flashed a message at me.

Asha: Your husband is taking you out to dinner right after your show. Change quickly. Don’t keep him waiting.

I just stared at the words for a beat, trying to work through my shock.

I hadn’t even known he was in New York. Last I’d seen (from tabloids) he was working hard and probably playing harder in London.

And.

Could he not have messaged me himself? Did he even have my cell number?

I texted Asha back.

Me: Got it. Is he attending the show?

Asha: How should I know? Just be ready.

I modeled two looks—both white, which seemed to be a theme in my jobs since the wedding. I suspected my husband or his family was behind that. A reminder to the world that I was his shiny new bride.

I walked the catwalk, but didn’t have the nerve to search the crowd for him. I knew it would throw me off, and what did it matter? If he was there, it was only for appearances.

After the show I left my hair and makeup as is (why waste it?) and slipped into a paper thin, cream, silk frock with a short hem and a plunging neckline that accentuated my cleavage and left little to the imagination.

I assumed by my outfit that my stylist had known about my dinner plans before I’d been informed.

It was a distracting dress for a distracting evening. I wondered if it would do its job.

I was just stepping into a pair of soft pink, feathered Jimmy Choo mules when I felt a shift to the air in the room.