CHAPTER 7

JASMINE POV.

“Ma’am, please wake up,” a voice said softly, followed by a light nudge on my shoulder.

I stirred with a yawn, stretching my arms overhead as my mind adjusted to the unfamiliar space. Right—William’s house. William’s bedroom, to be specific.

A middle-aged woman stood over me, her lips pressed into a tight line, her hands clasped in front of her like she was trying very hard not to wrinkle her apron.

“Who are you?” I asked, blinking against the morning light.

She straightened her spine, lifted her chin slightly, and said in a clipped tone, “I’m Anna. The housekeeper. I tend to this house.”

“Oh. I’m Jasmine—” I stopped myself before adding Carter. The way her eyes scanned me from the top of my bedhead down to my bare legs told me she already knew who I was. And she didn’t like it. Her nose twitched the way people do when they smell something unpleasant but are too polite to say it.

I cleared my throat. “Is there a reason you woke me?”

She offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Other than the fact that a lady should’ve been awake well before now? You have an appointment with a private designer in a few minutes. I waited, hoping you would wake up on your own but clearly, punctuality isn’t your strength.”

Her words were wrapped in civility, but every syllable held judgment like a knife wrapped in velvet. I forced a tight-lipped smile, choosing not to bite back. Maybe she was just particular about time. Or maybe she, like the rest of the world, had already written her own version of my story—one that painted me as the villain. I wished she would try to know me before deciding who I was. But that’s the thing with people—they would rather believe a scandal than a truth. That’s why bad news travels faster.

After showering, I stepped back into the room to find a few outfits neatly laid out on the bed.

“These are nice,” I said hesitantly, running my fingers over the fabric. “Did William pick them out?”

Anna sniffed faintly, lifting her chin again. “No. My daughter did.” Then she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Judging by the things I’ve seen you wear on social media, I imagine this must feel like… fresh air. You do have a very questionable taste in fashion.”

My jaw dropped. “I do have a good fashion sense, thank you very much,” I said through clenched teeth, my voice sugar-sweet with a sharp edge. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get dressed. Please leave.”

She gave a small, exaggerated nod, like I’d just confirmed everything she already believed about me, then turned on her heel and walked out with a stiff shoulder.

I looked down at the dresses again. They were simple but elegant—nothing too flashy. I liked them.

But I was too annoyed to admit it out loud.

I had nothing of my own here. Everything I owned was still in the house I used to share with Martin. And now I was standing in someone else’s room, being judged by someone who didn’t even know me.

***********

I walked downstairs slowly, still a little groggy but freshly showered and dressed in the clothes Anna’s daughter had picked out. They were nice. A simple cream blouse tucked into high-waisted tailored pants. No glitter, no tight curves. Just clean, classic lines. I looked… normal. And maybe that was the point.

When I stepped into the main sitting room, I stopped short.

There, sipping a tiny cup of espresso like he was posing for a Vogue feature, was a man I instantly recognized—even though I’d never met him in person.

Gaston Laurent.

He was sitting with his legs crossed, a sketchpad on his knee, pencil tucked behind his ear. Slim, elegant, dressed in a pinstriped suit with a scarf draped around his neck like it was born there. His hair was black and curly, and he had cheekbones sharp enough to slice glass. I had seen his designs on the wealthiest, most exclusive brides—women who never tagged him, never said his name, but whispered it at cocktail parties like it was a sacred spell.

Gaston wasn’t just a designer. He was a hidden gem, the kind only the rich rich had access to. The kind who didn’t do interviews, didn’t have an I*******m, and only worked by referral. If you didn’t run in the right circles, you didn’t even know he existed.

And now he was standing up, walking toward me with open arms like we were old friends.

“Mon dieu,” he said, eyes wide with theatrical delight. “C’est elle! Look at you, ma chérie—you are even more ravissante in person!”

I blinked, stunned.

“You… know me?”

“But of course! Who doesn’t, hmm?” He winked dramatically. “William say you are beautiful, but I am not prepared. Non, non, non! You are a muse!” He took both my hands in his and kissed the air beside each cheek. “Enchanté, Jasmine. I am Gaston, and today, I ‘ave the honour of wrapping you in dreams.”

I smiled—genuinely smiled—for the first time in what felt like weeks.

He was kind. Effervescent. Sweet without being fake. And he made me feel like me, not the scandal I had been turned into.

“Thank you. I’ve actually wanted to wear one of your pieces for years,” I admitted. “But it’s… hard to get a spot.”

He raised his brow, mock-offended. “Ah! Because I am picky, yes? Très, très sélectif. I do not like… how you say… noise.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Social media, too many clients, everyone wants to be famous—non! I want to make art, not trending posts, oui?”

I nodded, impressed. He was exactly what I imagined.

He led me to a seat and began taking measurements, his touch light and professional, his compliments genuine.

“Your shoulders, parfait. Waist, très jolie. I ‘ave so many ideas for you, chérie. You must trust me, yes?”

I chuckled. “I trust you.”

“This dress, it will not scream—it will speak. Like you.” He looked up from his measuring tape, smiling warmly. “Soft but strong. I like zat.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest. This was the first time anyone aside from William had treated me like a person since I came out of rehab. No side-eyes. No judgment. Just kindness.

“So,” he said, scribbling something quickly. “You want a small dress? Simple? Minimal?” He squinted at me over his sketchpad. “Why?”

I hesitated. Because the wedding wasn’t real? Because there was no point in spending so much on a fantasy?

Before I could answer, Wiliam walked into the living room, straight to my direction and planted a kiss on my lips like it was the most natural thing to do.

I froze.

He pulled back just slightly, eyes warm and heavy-lidded, like we were in love.

“Sorry I left before you woke, my love. Had an early meeting,” he said as he slid onto the couch beside me and wrapped an arm casually around my shoulders.

I blinked at him, heart skipping.

Gaston melted. “Oh là là! C’est romantique! You two—magnifique!” He clapped his hands, absolutely glowing. “I am in love already.”

I gave a tight smile, trying to stay in character, while inside, my mind was screaming.

How was William so casual about this? So good at pretending?

“Don’t listen to her, Gaston,” he said smoothly, his thumb brushing the inside of my wrist like he didn’t even know he was doing it. “Make the dress as beautiful and big as you want. I want her to look like a princess that day.”

I turned to him, surprised.

“There’s no budget,” he added, eyes still locked on mine. “Whatever you come up with, once you are done costing it out, send it to me directly.”

Gaston gave a delighted little gasp and pressed a hand to his heart. “Mon dieu, I ‘ave waited my whole life for a groom like you!”

But William wasn’t looking at him. He was still looking at me—.

“You remember how you always wanted a fairytale wedding?” he asked, voice low now. Intimate. “Back in high school, you talked about it all the time.”

My throat went dry. “You… remember that?”

His expression didn’t change. “I don’t forget anything that relates to you,” he said quietly. “Never have.”

The air left my lungs and it felt like I had forgotten how to breathe.

I looked down quickly, trying to gather myself. “That… that was a long time ago, William. Things are different now.” I swallowed. “This is my second marriage. It’s better we go simple.”

He leaned forward slightly, his fingers curling gently around mine. “That first one was a mistake.”

“This…” His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “This is going to be your first true wedding.”

And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted my hand and pressed a kiss to it.

Right there, in front of Gaston.

My heart slammed against my ribs so fast I was sure they both heard it. My breath hitched, and for a moment—just a moment—I forgot that this was supposed to be fake because he said it like he meant it.

I forced myself to blink, to breathe, to remember that I was playing a part—but the lines were starting to blur, and I didn’t know if it was just him acting like this was real… or if he wanted me to believe it was.

Gaston, bless his heart, clasped his hands together and beamed.

“Exactement!” he said, practically floating with joy. “Zis is what I needed—l’amour! The romance, the fire—I feel inspired already. I will sketch a few designs, oui? Something regal, something unforgettable. I show you next meeting.”

I nodded, still stunned.

William didn’t say anything else. Just sat there with that unreadable look in his eyes and his hand still covering mine like he had every right to hold it.