Sophie's POV
The boutique is elegant and overpriced—exactly the kind of place Mrs. Wilson gravitates toward. Crystal chandeliers cast expensive light over racks of designer clothes that cost more than most people make in a month.
I trail behind her through the displays, making appropriate sounds of admiration while my mind churns with questions I know I shouldn't ask.
"What do you think of this one?" Mrs. Wilson holds up a cream-colored blazer, her manicured fingers smoothing the fabric. "For the charity luncheon next month."
"It's beautiful," I say automatically. "The cut is very flattering."
"Mm. A bit conservative, though." She returns it to the rack with obvious disappointment. "Perhaps something with more personality."
I nod and follow her deeper into the store, past silk scarves and leather handbags that probably cost more than my rent. This is how it always is with Mrs. Wilson—everything calculated, everything chosen for maximum impact.
"How has Blaze been?" she asks, fingers trailing over a cashmere sweater. "Since the moving arrangement?"
"Good. Happy, I think." The words feel hollow even as I say them. "He seems settled."
"Excellent. That's exactly what we hoped to hear." Mrs. Wilson's smile is perfectly calibrated—warm enough to seem genuine, controlled enough to maintain distance. "It's so wonderful to see him finally making mature decisions about his future."
Mature decisions. Like choosing a girlfriend is some kind of test he's finally passed.
"He talks about wanting stability," I offer, testing the waters. "About being tired of chaos."
"As he should be. All that... unpleasantness last year was so damaging. To him, to the family, to his career prospects."
She selects a blouse from the rack, holding it up to examine the stitching. "I'm just grateful he's found someone who can help him move past it."
The clinical way she discusses her son's pain makes my stomach turn. Like his heartbreak was just an inconvenient phase to be managed.
"Mrs. Wilson," I say carefully, as casually as I can manage, "can I ask you something?"
"Of course, dear."
"Do you ever... do you ever have any regrets? About this arrangement?"
The question hangs in the air between us like a live wire. Mrs. Wilson's fingers stop moving across the silk blouse, and for a moment, just a moment, her carefully maintained composure cracks.
I see something raw flicker across her expression. Doubt, maybe. Or grief for the son she's systematically erasing in favor of the one she thinks she wants.
The silence stretches for several agonizing seconds. I hold my breath, waiting for her to say something real. Something honest. Something that acknowledges what we're actually doing here.
"Whether I ever considered calling the whole thing off?" I press gently. "Before we reach whatever endpoint we've agreed upon."
Mrs. Wilson's grip tightens on the blouse. For just an instant, I think she might break. Might admit that paying someone to manipulate her own child is wrong. Might choose being a mother over being a puppet master.
Then she shakes her head, and the mask slides back into place.
"It's for Blaze's own good," she says, her voice steady but hollow. "He'll thank us someday. This is what's best for him."
The words sound rehearsed. Like she's been practicing them in the mirror, trying to convince herself as much as me.
"He doesn't know what he wants when he's... confused," she continues, the euphemism landing like a slap. "Someone has to make the hard decisions. Someone has to protect him from himself."
I don't believe a single word. The hollowness behind the statement is impossible to miss—like she's reading from a script she's never really believed in.
But I can see in her posture, in the way she won't quite meet my eyes, that she's not going to say more. Not going to give me the out I'm desperately hoping for.
I decide not to press further.
"Of course," I say quietly. "You're his mother. You know what's best."
Mrs. Wilson nods, apparently satisfied with my response. She moves to another rack, the moment of vulnerability already buried beneath layers of careful composure.
"Sophie," she says suddenly, turning to me with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You know you're a good girl, don't you?"
The unexpected praise catches me off guard. "I... thank you."
"I mean it. You're exactly what Blaze needs right now. Stable. Supportive. Normal."
She reaches out to touch my arm, the gesture almost maternal. "I wish we could have met under different circumstances. If everything had happened organically... well, I would have been genuinely happy to see you two together."
The admission hits like a physical blow. She would have liked me if this were real. If I weren't being paid to lie to her son. If I weren't a pawn in whatever sick game she and her husband are playing.
"That means a lot," I manage, forcing a grateful smile.
"You're giving him exactly what he needs to heal. To move forward. To become the man he's supposed to be."
The man he's supposed to be. Not the man he actually is. The man they've decided he should be instead.
Mrs. Wilson releases my arm and returns to her shopping, apparently considering the conversation closed. I follow her through the rest of the boutique, nodding at appropriate intervals, playing my part in this elaborate theater of normalcy.
But inside, guilt coils tighter around my chest like a noose.
I try to remind myself that I had no choice. That desperation forced my hand. That when you're drowning, you don't get to be picky about which lifeline gets thrown your way.
That morality becomes irrelevant when survival is at stake.
But the justifications ring hollow now, echoing uselessly in the space where my self-respect used to live.
And lately, I can't stop thinking about the day this nightmare began. The moment I said yes to something I knew was wrong, because the alternative was losing everything.
Some choices haunt you forever, no matter how good your reasons were for making them.
And some lies grow so big, so complex, that the truth becomes more terrifying than living with the deception.
I'm starting to understand that I might be trapped in something I can never escape from. Something that will destroy everything good in my life, including the parts of my relationship with Blaze that have somehow become real despite how they started.
Mrs. Wilson buys three blouses and a scarf that costs more than most people's car payments.
I buy nothing except more guilt and the growing certainty that this ends badly for everyone involved.
Especially Blaze, who trusts me completely and has no idea his own mother is paying me to lie to him every single day.