Updated Nov 5, 2025 • ~14 min read
The newspaper landed on the breakfast table with a thwack that made Camille jump.
Eleanor stood at the head of the table, perfectly composed in a dove-gray cashmere set, but her eyes were glacial. Nicholas looked up from his coffee, and Camille watched his expression shift from confusion to dread as he took in his mother’s stance.
“Good morning,” Eleanor said, her voice deceptively pleasant. “I thought you might be interested in today’s society pages.”
She flipped the paper open to a full-page spread: ASHTON HEIR’S WHIRLWIND ROMANCE: REAL OR ARRANGEMENT?
Camille’s blood ran cold.
The main photo was from last night’s gala—but it wasn’t the one from the red carpet where they’d posed perfectly. It wasn’t even from their dance, when they’d been pressed close and convincing.
It was from after. From when Nicholas had pulled away and they’d maintained careful distance. The photographer had caught them standing at opposite ends of the bar, not touching, barely looking at each other. Nicholas’s expression was closed off, almost cold. Camille looked lost, alone despite being in a crowded room.
The caption read: Newlyweds or business partners? Nicholas Ashton and wife Camille maintain notable distance at Kensington Foundation Gala. Body language experts suggest trouble in paradise for couple married less than three weeks ago.
“Sit,” Eleanor commanded.
Camille sank into her chair. Nicholas set down his coffee cup with deliberate care, his jaw tight.
Eleanor settled into her seat, folding her hands on top of the newspaper. “Would either of you care to explain why, after I specifically instructed you to appear affectionate and united, this is the photograph that made the papers?”
“We danced,” Nicholas said. “We posed on the red carpet. We were affectionate.”
“And then you spent the rest of the evening on opposite sides of the room looking like strangers forced to endure each other’s company.” Eleanor’s finger tapped the photo. “Body language experts, Nicholas. They’re analyzing your marriage in the New York Times.”
“Let them analyze.” But Nicholas’s voice lacked conviction.
“Let them?” Eleanor’s laugh was sharp. “Do you understand what this does to your credibility? To the family’s reputation? People are already suspicious about the sudden marriage. This confirms every doubt they have.”
Camille forced herself to speak. “It’s one photo. One moment. We were convincing the rest of the night.”
“Were you?” Eleanor produced her phone, scrolling through something. “Because I’ve received three calls this morning. Penelope wants to know if you’re having problems already. Malcolm Jenkins asked if the marriage was a business arrangement for the inheritance. And someone from the Wall Street Journal wants a comment on rumors that you’re heading for annulment.”
The walls felt like they were closing in. Camille’s hand went automatically to the sapphire ring, twisting it on her finger.
“We’ll do better,” Nicholas said. “Next event, we’ll be more careful—”
“You don’t have until the next event.” Eleanor leaned forward. “The damage is done. People are talking, speculating, questioning. We need to control this narrative immediately.”
“How?” Camille asked, though she dreaded the answer.
Eleanor’s smile was all edges. “You’re going to give them exactly what they want. Proof that this marriage is real, passionate, completely legitimate.” She pulled out another section of the paper—the society pages. “Madison Pierce runs the society column. She’s coming here this afternoon to do a feature on newlyweds at home. Exclusive photos, interview, the works.”
“Absolutely not,” Nicholas said immediately. “We’re not inviting press into our home.”
“You forfeited your right to refuse when you let yourself be photographed looking miserable at your own wife’s side.” Eleanor’s voice was steel. “Madison will be here at two. You’ll give her a tour of the house, discuss your whirlwind romance, and pose for photos that show you’re actually capable of touching each other.”
“Mother—”
“This isn’t negotiable.” Eleanor stood, taking the newspaper with her. “Three hours. I suggest you spend them remembering what madly in love couples look like.”
She swept out of the dining room, leaving the newspaper’s second copy on the table. Camille picked it up with shaking hands, reading the full article.
Sources close to the family suggest the marriage came together quickly—perhaps too quickly. Nicholas Ashton stands to inherit a substantial fortune upon marriage before his 33rd birthday next month. Camille Stratton, a grant writer from Connecticut with no apparent connection to New York’s social elite, appears to have entered the picture at a convenient time.
“They barely know each other,” says one family insider who wished to remain anonymous. “The whole thing feels transactional.”
Body language expert Dr. Sarah Chen analyzed photographs from the gala: “There’s a notable lack of unconscious intimacy. Real couples touch frequently without thinking—a hand on the back, fingers intertwined, natural gravitating toward each other. These two maintain careful distance, as if choreographing each interaction.”
Camille set down the paper, feeling sick. “They’re right. About all of it.”
“They’re speculating.” But Nicholas looked pale. “We just need to be more careful.”
“More careful at lying, you mean.” Camille stood, moving to the window. Outside, the grounds were perfectly manicured, beautiful, suffocating. “Three hours until we have to perform for a reporter. What are we supposed to say? How are we supposed to act?”
“Like we’re in love.”
“We tried that last night. Apparently we’re not very convincing when we think no one’s watching.”
Nicholas moved to stand beside her, and Camille was hyperaware of the space between them. Six inches that might as well have been miles.
“The dance was convincing,” he said quietly.
“Was it? Because your cousin didn’t think so. He told me everyone assumes this is about the inheritance.”
“Garrett’s an asshole.”
“Garrett’s observant.” Camille turned to face him. “We can’t keep doing this—pretending in public and retreating to opposite corners the moment we’re alone. People notice. Cameras notice. Your mother definitely notices.”
“What do you want me to do?” Nicholas’s frustration finally cracked through. “Last night on that dance floor, things felt—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “Things felt too real. And that’s dangerous, Camille. If we start believing our own lies, this whole thing falls apart.”
“It’s already falling apart.” She gestured at the discarded newspaper. “We’re in the Times being analyzed by body language experts. In three hours, we have to convince a reporter that we’re madly in love. And every minute, I feel more like I’m losing myself in this performance.”
“You’re not the only one.” Nicholas’s voice was rough. “You think this is easy for me? Touching you, being close to you, pretending to feel things I—” He stopped again, his jaw working.
“Things you what?”
“Things I can’t afford to feel.” He moved away from the window, from her. “We have three hours. We should practice.”
“Practice what? Touching each other?”
“Yes.” Nicholas turned back to face her. “That’s exactly what we need to practice. Natural affection. The kind of unconscious intimacy that body language expert noticed we’re lacking.”
Camille’s heart was pounding. “You want to choreograph being natural?”
“I want to survive this interview without my mother pulling the plug on everything.” Nicholas crossed to her, and this time he didn’t stop at a careful distance. He stood close enough that she could feel his body heat, smell his cologne. “So yes. We’re going to practice.”
His hand came up to cup her face, the gesture achingly gentle. Camille’s breath caught.
“Like this,” Nicholas murmured. “Casual touches that look unconscious. My hand on your face, your hand on my chest. Things couples do without thinking.”
Camille’s hand moved to his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm—fast, erratic, not at all as controlled as he was pretending to be. “Like this?”
“Yeah.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “Exactly like that.”
They stood frozen in that tableau, neither moving closer nor pulling away. This close, Camille could see the fine lines around Nicholas’s eyes, the way his pupils dilated slightly as he looked at her. Could feel the tension in his body, the same tension she felt in her own.
“This is insane,” she whispered. “Practicing intimacy like it’s a business skill.”
“Everything about this is insane.” But Nicholas didn’t move away. “We just have to be convincing for a few more months. Then you get your money and I get my inheritance and we never have to touch each other again.”
The thought should have been a relief. Instead, it felt like loss.
“Nicholas—” Camille started, but the sound of footsteps in the hallway made them both freeze.
They stepped apart just as Elena, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway.
“Excuse me, Mr. Ashton. Mrs. Ashton asked me to prepare the sitting room for the photographer. Will you be using the master bedroom for any of the photos?”
Nicholas’s expression shuttered. “No. The sitting room and downstairs areas only.”
Elena nodded and disappeared. The moment—whatever it had been—was broken.
“We should get ready,” Nicholas said, his voice carefully neutral. “Two hours now.”
They spent the next two hours in a strange ballet of practiced intimacy. Nicholas would come up behind Camille and place his hands on her shoulders—testing the gesture, seeing if it looked natural. She’d lean back against him, trying to make her body relax into his touch instead of tensing. They practiced walking hand-in-hand, sitting close on the sofa, looking at each other with affection instead of calculation.
Every touch felt like fire and ice at once. Too much and not enough.
By the time Madison Pierce arrived—a sharp-eyed woman in her forties with a camera crew in tow—Camille felt wrung out from pretending.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ashton, thank you so much for this opportunity.” Madison’s smile was professional but her eyes were assessing, looking for cracks in the facade. “I know the article this morning must have been difficult.”
“Honestly?” Nicholas’s arm wrapped around Camille’s waist, pulling her close. “We found it amusing. People will speculate, but we know the truth of our relationship.”
“And what is that truth?”
“That we’re crazy about each other.” Nicholas looked down at Camille, and his expression was so tender, so genuine-looking that for a moment she forgot they were acting. “Sometimes when you know, you know. Why waste time with long engagements and elaborate planning?”
Madison’s pen flew across her notepad. “Mrs. Ashton, what attracted you to Nicholas?”
This was the question they’d practiced. Camille looked up at Nicholas, letting herself remember the dance floor, the moment when things had felt real. “He sees me. Not who I’m supposed to be or who people expect me to be. Just me. In a world full of performance, that’s rare.”
She felt Nicholas’s hand tighten at her waist, saw something flicker in his eyes that might have been real emotion.
“And the rumors about the inheritance?” Madison pressed. “Some people suggest the timing of your marriage is convenient.”
“Some people should mind their own business,” Camille said, surprising herself with the sharpness. “Yes, Nicholas has family money. Yes, I come from different circumstances. But reducing our relationship to a transaction is insulting to both of us.”
“Well said.” Madison looked almost impressed. “Can we get some photos? Maybe in the sitting room?”
The photographer directed them through a series of poses. Sitting on the sofa with Camille leaning against Nicholas’s chest. Standing by the window with his arms around her from behind. One where they were supposed to be laughing at some private joke, their foreheads touching.
That last one was torture. Standing that close, breathing the same air, pretending to laugh while Camille’s heart hammered against her ribs. Nicholas’s hands rested on her hips, his thumbs making small circles that she was almost certain weren’t for the camera.
“Perfect,” the photographer said. “Now kiss.”
Camille’s eyes flew to Nicholas’s. They’d carefully avoided any situations that would require kissing. The courthouse wedding had ended without one. Public appearances had been limited to chaste cheek kisses or forehead touches.
“We’re a bit camera shy about that,” Nicholas started, but Madison cut him off.
“One kiss. For the cover photo. It’ll kill the rumors immediately—body language experts can’t question a genuine kiss.”
Camille saw the calculation in Nicholas’s eyes, the same calculation running through her own mind. Refuse, and it would look suspicious. Agree, and they’d cross a line they’d carefully maintained.
Eleanor’s warning echoed in her head: If you let yourself believe any of this is real, you’ll be the one destroyed.
But the cameras were rolling. Madison was watching. And they needed this article to be perfect.
“Okay,” Camille said softly. “One kiss.”
Nicholas’s eyes searched hers, asking a question she couldn’t quite read. Then his hand came up to cup her face, the gesture achingly familiar after their practice session earlier.
“For the camera,” he whispered, so quietly only she could hear.
“For the camera,” she agreed.
But when his lips met hers, there was nothing calculated about it. Nothing practiced or performed. The kiss was soft, tentative, questioning—and then Nicholas’s hand tightened in her hair and Camille’s fingers clutched his shirt and suddenly it was real. Desperately, dangerously real.
She forgot about the cameras. Forgot about Madison and the photographer and Eleanor probably watching from somewhere. There was only Nicholas’s mouth on hers, his body pressed against hers, the way he kissed her like he was drowning and she was air.
When they finally broke apart, Camille was shaking. Nicholas’s pupils were blown wide, his breathing uneven.
“Perfect,” the photographer said, sounding slightly awed. “That was perfect.”
Madison was making rapid notes, her expression satisfied. “That’s exactly what we needed. No body language expert could question that.”
They finished the interview in a blur. Camille answered questions on autopilot while her lips still tingled and her heart still raced. Nicholas kept his arm around her the entire time, but his touch felt different now. Uncertain. Confused.
When Madison and her crew finally left, Eleanor appeared in the doorway.
“Well done,” she said, her voice neutral. “That should satisfy the gossips. For now.”
She left without another word, but Camille caught the look she gave them—assessing, calculating, slightly concerned.
Nicholas released Camille the moment Eleanor was gone, stepping back like she’d burned him.
“That was—” he started.
“Convincing,” Camille finished, her voice hollow. “Very convincing.”
“Right. Convincing.” But Nicholas couldn’t seem to meet her eyes. “I should get back to work. Conference call in twenty minutes.”
He fled to his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
Camille stood alone in the sitting room, touching her lips where Nicholas had kissed her. Where she’d kissed him back with an intensity that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with something she’d promised herself she wouldn’t feel.
On the coffee table, Madison had left her card. Call me if you ever want to do a follow-up, she’d said. Your story is compelling.
Camille looked at the card and laughed bitterly. Compelling. Yes. That was one word for it.
A disaster waiting to happen was another.
She went to her bedroom, closing the door and sinking onto her bed. Her phone buzzed—a text from her mother asking how married life was treating her. Camille stared at it, unable to formulate a response that wasn’t a lie.
It’s complicated, she finally typed. I’ll call you soon.
Another lie to add to the pile.
Through the walls, she could hear Nicholas on his conference call, his voice carefully controlled and professional. Like he hadn’t just kissed her like his life depended on it. Like everything between them was still fake, still manageable, still just a performance.
But Camille knew better now. That kiss had changed something, shifted something fundamental between them. And she had no idea how to pretend it hadn’t happened.
Or how to survive the next nine months without it happening again.
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