"Preparation" turned out to mean Azryth hiring an etiquette consultant, a stylist, and what I can only describe as a professional social interaction coach.
The etiquette consultant was a severe woman named Margaret who spent three hours on Monday teaching me which fork to use for what course and how to properly hold a champagne flute.
"No, no, no," she said for the fifteenth time. "You hold it by the stem, not the bowl, you'll warm the champagne."
"Maybe I like warm champagne."
"No one likes warm champagne, Mr. Kael."
The stylist was a man named François who took one look at my wardrobe and physically recoiled.
"We're burning all of this," he announced, gesturing at my clothes like they'd personally offended him.
"You're not burning my clothes!"
"They're synthetic blends and poor cuts, you're attending a gala with people who wear more money than you make in a year. You need proper attire."
He produced a suit. Custom-made, he explained, tailored specifically for me based on measurements they'd apparently taken while I was sleeping at some point, which was creepy but the suit was admittedly beautiful.
Deep blue, almost black, with a subtle pattern that caught the light, the kind of suit that made you look like you belonged in rooms with chandeliers and old money.
"Try it on," François commanded.
I tried it on, it fit perfectly, obviously.
When I emerged from the dressing room, Azryth was there, he'd been on a call but stopped mid-sentence when he saw me.
For a moment, he just stared.
"That will do," he said finally, returning to his call like nothing had happened.
But I'd seen his expression, the brief flash of something before he'd locked it down.
The social interaction coach was a woman named Patricia who specialized in "high-society communication strategies."
"The key is to appear interested without committing to anything substantial," she explained, sitting across from me in Azryth's office. "Light topics, safe compliments, deflect personal questions with humor."
"So lie."
"Socially navigate," she corrected. "For instance, if someone asks about your background, you don't give your life stor, you say something like 'Oh, I've been lucky to have interesting opportunities,' and then redirect the conversation to them."
"That's not an answer."
"Exactly, that's the point." She smiled. "These people don't actually want to know about you, they want to feel like they know about you, there's a difference."
We practiced for two hours. By the end, I could deflect questions, make small talk about nothing, and smile while saying absolutely nothing of substance.
"You're a natural," Patricia said, which felt like an insult disguised as a compliment.
***
Wednesday night, after our regular training session (during which I only knocked Azryth into a wall once, progress!), he called me into his office.
"We need to discuss physical affection," he said without preamble.
I choked on the water I was drinking. "We need to what?"
"At the gala, we'll be expected to display physical affection appropriate for a married couple." He was completely businesslike about it. "Hand-holding, standing in close proximity, possibly dancing."
"Dancing?"
"It's a formal gala, there will be dancing." He stood from his desk. "We should practice."
"Practice dancing."
"Practice appearing comfortable with physical contact in a public setting." He moved to the center of the office, holding out one hand. "Come here."
This was fine, this was totally normal, just practicing fake affection with my demon husband so we could convince five hundred strangers we were in love.
I took his hand.
He pulled me close, one hand at my waist, the other holding my hand in a formal dance position.
"This is how we'll dance," he said. "Traditional, conservative, nothing that would appear inappropriate."
We were very close, close enough that I could see the amber flecks in his eyes, and feel the warmth radiating from him.
"We'll need to look comfortable," Azryth continued, seemingly unaffected. "Relaxed, like this is natural for us."
"Yes. This is very natural."
"You're tense."
"You're a demon I'm magically bound to, tense seems reasonable."
His jaw tightened. "For one night, we need to be a couple, a convincing couple, can you do that?"
Could I? Pretend to be in love with someone I was starting to have confusing feelings about? Someone who'd saved my life multiple times? Someone who looked at me sometimes like I was something other than an inconvenience?
"Yes," I said quietly. "I can do that."
"Good." But he didn't let go. "We'll also need to be prepared for questions, invasive questions, about our relationship, our marriage, our future plans."
"What do I say?"
"Just redirect and deflect, give non-answers that sound meaningful." His hand on my waist tightened slightly. "But if someone asks something truly invasive, about our intimate life, for instance… I'll handle it."
"Why would someone ask about our intimate life?"
"You'd be surprised what people think they're entitled to know." His expression darkened. "If anyone makes you uncomfortable, you tell me immediately, understood?"
There was that protectiveness again, it's growing stronger each day.
"Understood," I said.
We stood there, in a dance position, neither of us moving.
"You should know," Azryth said finally, "that Saturday will be... difficult. These people are vultures, they'll be looking for any sign of weakness, any indication that our marriage isn't what we claim."
"So we give them nothing."
"We give them perfection." His eyes met mine. "A couple so obviously in love that no one questions it."
"And after? When the gala is over?"
"We return to normal, whatever that means for us." He released me, stepping back. "Get some rest, we have more preparation tomorrow."
He dismissed me like we hadn't just been standing in what was essentially an embrace, discussing how to fake intimacy convincingly.
I went to my room, changed for bed, and lay staring at the ceiling.
Saturday was coming.
Five hundred people, full media coverage, hours of pretending to be in love with Azryth.
Pretending to feel things I was starting to actually feel.
And I needed to be convincing, to look at Azryth like he was my whole world, like I chose this, like I was happy.
The terrifying part was that some of those things were starting to feel less like acting.
My phone, the new one with a private number that reporters didn't have, buzzed with a text.
Azryth: *The photos were good, we look convincing, Saturday will be fine.*
I stared at the text, at the casual reassurance, the almost-comfort.
Me: *How do you know?*
Azryth: *Because you're remarkably capable when you're not overthinking. Trust yourself.*
I read the text three times.
Trust yourself. From someone who controlled everything, who planned for every contingency, who trusted nothing and no one.
Me: *Okay.*
Azryth: *Get some sleep, we'll practice more tomorrow.*
Me: *More dancing?*
There was a long pause.
Azryth: *Among other things.*
I turned off my phone.
Saturday.
I could do this.
I had to do this.
And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't entirely be a performance.
The binding pulsed in agreement.
Yeah. I was definitely screwed.