8. THEODORE

The Arrangement Yesterday feels like it happened to someone else. Someone braver. Someone more honest.

Sarah called while I was staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to recognize the man who'd just been introduced to all of Olandria as Valentinius Carradine's fiancé.

"How could you not tell me you were gay?" Her voice cut through the phone like broken glass. "How long have you been lying to me, Theodore?"

I held the phone away from my ear, watching myself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes. Stubble I hadn't bothered to shave. The face of a man who'd lost control of his own life.

"Sarah, I—"

"We've been together for two years. Two years of me thinking we had a future, and you were what? Experimenting? Using me as your beard?"

What could I say? That I cheated on you with my best friend's wife? That I'm being blackmailed into this engagement to protect my family? That everything you're seeing on the news is a lie designed to trap me?

"You don't deserve this," I said instead. "You don't deserve me."

The silence stretched between us like a chasm.

"You're right," she said finally. "I don't."

The line went dead. Another bridge burned. Another good thing destroyed by my choices.

I set the phone down and stared at my reflection. The man looking back at me was a stranger. A man who'd cheated on his girlfriend, betrayed his best friend, and sold his soul to protect his family.

A man who'd lost everything and somehow managed to lose more.

The knock at my door comes exactly twenty-four hours after the press conference. I know it's him before I open it. Can feel his presence like a storm front moving in.

Valentinius stands in my hallway wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my yearly rent. His dreadlocks are pulled back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. Even relaxed, he radiates the kind of power that makes rooms go quiet.

"Get dressed," he says, stepping past me into my apartment like he owns it. Which, technically, he does. "Something appropriate for travel."

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he surveys my living space with the detached interest of someone evaluating real estate. His gaze lingers on the stack of unpaid bills on my coffee table, the empty takeout containers I haven't bothered to throw away.

"Family weekend," he says finally. "My father wants to meet you properly."

The blood drains from my face. "I can't do this. I can't pretend to be your boyfriend in front of your family."

"Fiancé," he corrects, settling onto my couch like he belongs there. "And you will."

"What if I can't convince them?"

He pulls out his phone, fingers dancing across the screen. "I paid your sister's tuition this morning."

He turns the phone toward me. A payment confirmation for Lily's full semester fees. More money than I make in three months, transferred like it's pocket change.

"How did you know about that?"

"I know things about you, Theodore." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Even things you don't know about yourself."

The casual way he says it makes my skin crawl. How long has he been watching? What else does he know?

"Perform well this weekend," he continues, "and your life stays manageable. Perhaps we'll even discuss restoring your career."

The hope that flickers in my chest feels dangerous. "You'd do that?"

"I'm a businessman. Good behavior deserves rewards."

He pauses, studying my face with that clinical interest that makes my skin crawl.

"And before you get any ideas about misbehaving or acting out, thinking it might stop me from going through with this marriage or convince my family to intervene..." His smile turns predatory. "That wouldn't help you. I don't need my family's approval to marry you, Theodore. This weekend's outcome will simply determine whether you want to be slightly happy or utterly miserable in our arrangement."

The casual way he delivers the threat makes my blood run cold.

"Your choice."

He reaches into his briefcase and produces a thick folder. "Everything you need to know about me and my family. You have two hours to memorize it."

I flip through the pages. Biographical details, family history, business holdings. A complete dossier on the Carradine empire and everyone in it.

"This is insane," I mutter. "You're treating this like a business presentation."

"Because it is." He stands, smoothing his suit. "Our relationship timeline is on page fifteen. Memorize it exactly. When we supposedly realized our feelings, our first kiss, when I proposed. Every detail matters."

The door closes behind him with expensive finality, leaving me alone with the weight of performance.

I spread the documents across my coffee table like a script breakdown. Family tree, important dates, Valentinius's preferences. Some details I already know from college – he still hates mushrooms, still loves terrible action movies. But there's so much I never knew. His childhood, his relationship with his father, the complex dynamics between his half-brothers.

The brothers' photos catch my attention. Three faces that share their father's features but wear them differently. They look like black ink that was dipped in different colors from different continents. Nicanor with his confident bearing, the only legitimate son. Maximus with sharper features that hint at Eastern European heritage. Jean-Noël whose face carries Asian influences that soften his father's harder edges.

I study our fabricated timeline. According to this fiction, we realized our feelings during a college reunion two years ago. Our first kiss happened in my apartment after too much wine and honest conversation. He proposed last month during a private dinner at his penthouse.

All lies. All carefully constructed to hide the truth of coercion and blackmail.

But I'm an actor. I can perform love, even if I can't feel it.

The thought makes my stomach turn. Is that what I've become? A professional liar?

Valentinius returns with shopping bags I recognize from our mall trip. The expensive clothes I'd walked away from, too overwhelmed to carry them home.

"You left without taking these," he says, setting them on my bed.

He selects outfits with the same precision he uses for everything else. Weekend appropriate, he calls it. Clothes that will help me blend into his world of inherited wealth and casual luxury.

"You'll need something for dinner tonight," he says, holding up a navy blazer. "Something that shows you belong."

The fabric feels foreign against my skin. Soft and expensive and wrong. Like wearing a costume for a role I never auditioned for.

"Change," he says. "We leave in twenty minutes."

In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the designer clothes. The man looking back could almost pass for someone who belongs in Valentinius's world. Almost.

If you don't look too closely at the fear in his eyes.

The car is a sleek black sedan that purrs rather than roars. Valentinius drives while I sit in the passenger seat, the folder of family information balanced on my lap.

"You start with 100 points," he says, eyes on the road. "Every mistake costs you."

"Mistake?"

"Wrong answers about my life. Flinching when I touch you. Forgetting to act like someone who's in love."

The scoring system is so clinical it makes me dizzy. "What happens when I lose points?"

"Your final score determines how comfortable your life will be." He glances at me briefly. "I suggest you aim high."

He outlines the rules like terms of employment. Physical contact requirements. Pet names to use in front of family. The importance of appearing intimate without crossing lines that would make the performance obvious.

"We've been intimate," he says matter-of-factly. "Act like it."

My face burns. "I can't—"

"You can. You will. Your family's financial security depends on it."

The countryside passes in a blur of green and gold. I try to focus on memorizing details from the folder, but my mind keeps circling back to the impossibility of what he's asking.

I'm supposed to pretend to love the man who's destroyed my life. Supposed to convince his family that our relationship is real and built on genuine affection.

The irony would be funny if it weren't so terrifying.

Eventually, the rhythm of the car and my own exhaustion pull me under. I drift off with the folder open on my lap, Valentinius's biographical details swimming behind my eyelids.

"We're here."

Valentinius's voice pulls me from dreamless sleep. I blink awake to see an estate that looks like something from a period film. Rolling grounds, manicured gardens, and a house that could accommodate a small village.

"Remember everything I told you," he says, removing our bags from the trunk.

The front door opens before we reach it, revealing a woman with beautiful curly dark hair and warm features. Even before I consult the folder, I know this is Coco. Pierre's wife. Valentinius's stepmother.

"You must be Theodore!" Her smile is genuine, the first real warmth I've felt in days. "Welcome to our home."

Valentinius moves differently here. Stiffer. More formal. I notice how he doesn't return her embrace, accepting her kiss on the cheek with polite distance.

"Thank you for having me," I say, slipping into character. My hand finds Valentinius's arm naturally, a gesture that feels surprisingly easy.

Coco's eyes light up. "Oh, aren't you sweet. Come in, come in. Pierre is in his study, but he'll join us for dinner."

The sound of racing engines interrupts her welcome. Two sports cars tear up the circular driveway like they're fleeing crime scenes.

A young man with mixed Asian features jumps out of a red convertible, arms raised in victory. "I won! I finally beat you!"

The second car disgorges someone with broader shoulders and Slavic cheekbones. He immediately removes his shoe and hurls it at the first man.

"You cheated!" Maximus shouts.

"Did not!" Jean-Noël dodges the shoe with practiced ease.

They wrestle briefly, more playful than violent, before collecting their bags. I recognize them from their photos, but seeing them in person drives home how much they look like variations on a theme. The same father's genetics filtered through different maternal influences.

"Boys," Coco sighs, but she's smiling. "Come meet Theodore properly."

Jean-Noël approaches with predatory curiosity, studying me like I'm a specimen under glass. "So you're the one who stole our brother's heart."

There's something unsettling about his intensity, like he's cataloguing my reactions for later analysis.

Maximus is cooler, more distant. His handshake is perfunctory, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Welcome to the family."

The way he says 'family' makes it sound like a prison sentence.

A third car arrives, more sedate but equally expensive. This time it's a young man with glasses and an impressive afro struggling with multiple bags while another man walks ahead, ignoring the obvious struggle.

"McKenna, don't drop anything expensive," the walking man says without turning around.

Nicanor, I realize from the file. The eldest. The only legitimate son. Unlike his half-brothers, he bears clear resemblance to both Coco and Pierre - the first son born to Pierre's only wife, while the others were fathered outside the marriage.

McKenna stumbles slightly, and Nicanor's voice cracks like a whip. "Careful! Some of us can't afford to replace designer luggage on an assistant's salary."

The cruelty is casual, practiced. McKenna's face doesn't change, but I see the tension in his shoulders.

Nicanor walks past us without acknowledgment, greeting his mother before disappearing into the house. McKenna approaches with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry about that," he says quietly. "I'm McKenna. Nice to meet you both."

He's taller than Nicanor, which somehow makes the other man's dismissal even more cruel. I offer to help with the bags, but he waves me off.

"I can handle it. But thank you."

There's intelligence in his eyes behind those glasses. Intelligence that's being systematically diminished by someone who should value it.

"Come," Coco says, taking my arm with maternal warmth. "Let me show you to your room."

The blue room is beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Elegant furniture, stunning views, and one very large bed.

Of course there's only one bed. We're engaged.

Valentinius sets our bags down with satisfaction. "Get used to it," he says quietly. "This is just the beginning."

Coco shows us the bathroom, explains dinner arrangements, and leaves us alone with promises that we'll love the weekend.

The door closes, and suddenly the space feels smaller. More intimate.

"You're doing well so far," Valentinius says, watching me with clinical interest. "Don't overthink it."

"I don't know if I can do this." The words come out smaller than I intended.

He moves closer, and for a moment his expression softens almost imperceptibly. "You're stronger than you think."

It's the closest thing to kindness he's shown me since this nightmare began. For just a second, I glimpse the college friend who used to walk me to class when I overslept.

Then the mask slides back into place.

"Get ready for dinner," he says. "The real test begins now."

I stare at the bed we'll be sharing, the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, the man who's orchestrated every detail of this elaborate performance.

I breathe in and out. Time to convince his family that I love the man who's systematically destroying my life. As the directors call it: Action.