Chapter 7

The final act of my plan was the most difficult. It required a level of cold-blooded calculation that I wasn't sure I possessed.

I waited for a night when Caleb had a major networking event with potential investors for his startup. I knew he would come home late, exhausted, and likely having had a few drinks.

He stumbled into the penthouse well after midnight, loosening his tie. He was tired, but his eyes were bright with success. I was lying on the sofa, pretending to be asleep.

He walked past me and went straight to the master bathroom. The sound of the shower started.

My heart began to pound. This was it.

I sat up, my hands shaking slightly, and grabbed my phone. I dialed Frances's number.

"Come to the penthouse. Now," I whispered into the phone. "The front door is unlocked. Come straight up."

I hung up before she could ask any questions.

Ten minutes later, the soft chime of the elevator announced her arrival. I met her at the door. She was dressed in jeans and a simple sweater, her face a mixture of excitement and fear.

I didn't say a word. I just pushed a sheer, black lace nightgown into her hands. "Go into the master bedroom. Get changed and get into bed. Don't turn on the lights."

Her eyes widened as she understood. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. This was everything she had ever wanted.

She scurried up the stairs without a word. I stood at the bottom, listening. I heard the soft rustle of fabric, the creak of the bed.

Then, the sound of the shower stopped. The bathroom door opened.

I held my breath.

From my vantage point, I couldn't see into the bedroom, but I could imagine the scene. Caleb, with only a towel wrapped around his waist, walking out of the steamy bathroom. The room would be dark, save for the moonlight streaming through the large windows. He would see a figure in the bed, a silhouette he would assume was me.

I heard his low, husky voice. "You waited up for me?"

Then, silence. I heard the soft sound of him getting into bed. The rustle of sheets.

His voice came again, lower this time, thick with sleep and desire. "Is your period over?"

That was our code. A crude, transactional question for a crude, transactional part of our agreement. An agreement we hadn't fulfilled in months, ever since my "awakening." I had used the excuse of my period to keep him away, and he had never questioned it.

I heard a small, confused sound from Frances. She wouldn't understand.

I heard him chuckle, a low, intimate sound that made my stomach clench. "Shy, all of a sudden?"

Then, a sharp, startled gasp from Frances. It wasn't a sound of pleasure. It was a sound of shock, of someone completely out of their depth.

The movements in the bedroom stopped abruptly.

A dead, heavy silence.

Then, Caleb's voice, sharp and laced with disbelief. "Frances?"

The spell was broken.

A few minutes later, he came down the stairs, pulling on a shirt. He was furious, his face pale with rage. Frances trailed behind him, wrapped in a sheet, crying.

He didn't even look at me. He grabbed his keys and escorted Frances out, promising to take her home.

When he returned, his rage was a palpable force in the room. The air crackled with it.

"What the hell was that, Jaliyah?" he roared, his voice shaking.

I had expected this. I was ready for it. "I thought it was what you wanted," I said, my voice deliberately calm. "You love her. I was just... helping."

"Helping?" he spat, his word a venomous dart. "You call that helping? That was cruel. You're a monster. You enjoy torturing us, don't you?"

His words hit me harder than I expected. Torturing him? I was trying to save my own life. I was trying to give him the happy ending the story demanded.

"That's not..." I started to say, the truth almost spilling from my lips. That's not true, I love you, I'm trying to survive.

But I caught myself. I swallowed the words, the truth a bitter pill in my throat.

He saw my hesitation. "Not what? What sick game are you playing?" he demanded, stepping closer.

I looked into his eyes, and for the first time, I saw not just anger, but a deep, genuine pain. And it wasn't for Frances. It was for himself. For the humiliation I had just put him through.

My carefully constructed plan had a flaw. I had accounted for his love for the heroine, but I had forgotten about his pride.