"Hello, Ms. Samuels! I'm Felicity Brightside and I'm your personal assistant and temporary wedding coordinator. It's so nice to finally meet you. How are you doing today?"

I blinked and took a step back, not sure if I was having a lucid dream because the woman's neon pink skirt-and-suit ensemble seemed offensive enough to my eyesight that this couldn't possibly be some hazy nightmare featuring serial killer Barbie.

The late morning sun's glare went out of focus, allowing me to concentrate on the woman standing at my door, sporting the most beautiful, pale, golden blond hair I've ever seen in real life. She flashed me a pearly-white smile, her... cheerfulness so palpable it hurt to look at her for another second.

Did someone let loose a Stepford wife around here?

"Um, sorry, I didn't catch what you just said," I said, giving her an apologetic smile and squinting as her bright pink outfit tortured my eyes further. "I just worked a nine-hour night shift and was sleeping for a little bit. Only half my brain is working right now."

Her pretty face—the real-life version of Barbie's—etched with concern. "Oh, a bride must get at least eight hours of beauty sleep every night, especially with only two weeks left before her big day. We must remedy that. We also need to ramp up your diet and make sure you're eating healthy and staying fit so that you'll look nothing less than perfect when you walk down the aisle. We have work to do, Ms. Samuels."

In the groggy web of my consciousness, the woman's earlier statements echoed until their meaning fully sank in.

Oh, God.

Holding up a hand to stop her from making any more attempts to come through the door, I grabbed my cellphone tucked under the waistband of my yoga pants and dialed a number.

As it rang, I peered over the woman's shoulder to scan the street outside and saw a black town car parked out front. A tall burly man with a shaved head was leaning against it, watching us with a remote expression on his face.

"Yes, Charlotte?"

"Brandon, what in the world is Ms. Brightshine doing at my house?" I demanded, ignoring the thrill that went through me at the sound of his cool, lazy voice on the other line when he said my name.

The woman dressed in neon perked up on the toes of her matching pink stiletto pumps and wagged a finger at me, smiling. "Oh, it's Ms. Brightside."

Brandon chuckled. "Didn't she introduce herself, darling? She's your new personal assistant and an acting wedding coordinator until the one I hired finishes the wedding she's doing this weekend."

My fist clenched but I pasted a smile on my face for the woman's sake. It wasn't her fault that Brandon thought it awfully hilarious to inflict her on me.

"But darling, I'm fine on my own. I don't need a personal assitant," I replied sweetly although I silently cringed at the crestfallen look on Ms. Brightside's face.

"Yes, you do," he said with a sigh. "You're getting tossed into unknown waters with no time to teach you how to swim or at least keep your head up. Ms. Brightside will help you navigate your way around. She comes highly recommended. I suggest you take full advantage of her skills."

I gritted my teeth. "I feel incredibly rude discussing this with you on the phone while she's right in front of me but I've managed on my own my entire life, Brand, and I'll manage being your wife just as well."

There was a moment of silence before he spoke again, finality in his voice. "If you don't want her help, fire her. Only you can do it."

The line disconnected and I stared at the phone as if it were some alien creature about to cover my hand with slime.

I swallowed uneasily, tossing the gadget to the ratty bench by foyer and glancing up at Ms. Brightside. She was watching me with blue eyes big with trepidation and hope.

Fire her? How the hell will I fire her? It's like kicking a bunny and enjoying it.

She was young, probably only a handful of years older than me, but her wide-eyed gaze was clearly innocent and demure. It was also apparent that she desperately and earnestly wanted to help—even if I didn't need or welcome any of it.

Damn you, Brandon. You just know how to twist my arm.

"Hi," I greeted her sheepishly.

She beamed at me. "Hello. So, will you keep me, Ms. Samuels? I can make your life so much easier and more fabulous!"

Good Lord, what do they feed this girl? Sunshine and daisies?

I nodded. "Yeah, you're on board. Sorry about that. Come on in."

Because I can't kick bunnies.

"So, Ms. Brightside," I started awkwardly. "What's your first name again?"

She brightened, extending a hand to me. "Felicity. Felicity Brightside."

Jesus. Felicity Brightside? Who is this—happiness personified?

I flashed her a smile and shook her hand. "My name is Charlotte Samuels. It's nice to meet you."

"Oh, no, I'm ecstatic to meet you!" the woman gushed, her beautiful blond curls bouncing around her shoulders. "I was so honored when Mr. Maxfield handpicked me as his future wife's right hand. Everyone is so curious about you!"

I grimaced. "Well, this curiosity isn't going to kill the cats—just merely bore them. There's nothing special going on here, trust me. Just a regular girl. Marrying a regu—er, I mean, great guy. Simple wedding. Simple marriage. No fuss."

Felicity's eyes widened in disbelief. "No fuss? How can people not fuss when everyone's so caught up in the movie-like romance of your love story? You two look so in love! Just look at this!"

She backed away quickly to give herself room to pull out a folded tabloid from under the little filing folder she was hugging. With her practically prancing in her heels with excitement, she handed the paper to me.

I scanned the front page of the gossip tabloid and groaned, slapping my forehead.

The article's title screamed in capital letters: DINER CINDERELLA CAPTURES MAXFIELD PRINCE!

It went on to detail how Brandon Maxfield ran into me at Marlow's one night a while ago and was unable to take his mind off me until we saw each other again this week. He got me to finally sit down with him, talk and fall madly and instantly in love.

I had a feeling Brandon fed them this story because as far-fetched as it sounded to me, the story was written so convincingly, one would have to be heartless to be unaffected.

If they only knew.

There was an enlarged photo of my hand sporting my giant engagement ring and another much larger shot of me and Brandon locked in a passionate embrace as we kissed in front of the jewelry store from our trip there yesterday morning.

The image was a little grainy but there was no mistaking Brandon. I, on the other hand, had my back turned to the camera, my hair in a tangled mess, my arms wrapped around Brandon's neck.

"See? Isn't that so sweet?" Felicity's bubbly voice penetrated my whirling thoughts and I snorted.

Sweet was merely one of the by-products of our talented acting—well, Brandon's talented acting.

Because you sure as hell know you weren't feigning anything when you kissed him as if you were dying for it.

My cheeks flamed and my fingers curled around the edge of the tabloid, curmpling the paper.

"Something wrong, Ms. Samuels?" Felicity prompted, peering at me with concern.

I looked up at her, smiling while I forced my annoyance back down. "Just thinking about all these nosy paps who can't mind their own business. I don't particularly enjoy their overeager interest."

Felicity's bubble gum pink mouth tightened into a line—the closest she can probably get to a frown. "I completely understand. It's part of my job to make sure they don't bother you too much. The man you saw out front is Gilles and he's going to be your chauffer and bodyguard. He scared away the paps who were stalking around the street earlier but they never stay too far."

My eyes bulged. "There were paps outside earlier?"

"Yes. The news of your whirlwind romance and engagement to Brandon Maxfield has been spreading like wildfire in the last twenty-four hours, Ms. Samuels. It's only a matter of time before they track you down and hound after every bit of juicy information they can get about and from you."

I swallowed hard. "That doesn't sound fun."

She shook her head. "No, it isn't always. It's great if the publicity is helping one of your causes but most of the time, they're just digging for dirt which is never nice."

And I have a lot of dirt. All six-feet high of it packed on top of my father's coffin.

I didn't want any of that dug up. I wouldn't be a hypocrite and say that I wasn't ashamed of my past—I most certainly was about some parts of it. I wouldn't deny it because I wasn't in the habit of compounding my shame with lies but I wouldn't volunteer it either.

I sighed.

I knew in the back of my mind that the public attention was going to be one of my biggest hurdles in this deal with Brandon but it was only now that the enormity of that risk was sinking in.

"Well, I'm glad you're here to help me then," I chirped with forced cheerfulness, smiling at Felicity. "Brandon said you came highly recommended. You must know the ropes like no other."

The woman, heaven bless her, perked up and nodded energetically. "I certainly do. My father was former Governor Mark Brightside and my mother was Ms. Tennessee. The Brightsides are a very high-profile family especially with my older brother running for governor in the next election and my sister starring in her own reality show about her fashion career as a model, muse and now designer of her own shoe line. I, on the other hand, being the baby of the family, have recently graduated from Brown with a B.A. in Modern Culture and Media, with honors and at the top of my class."

My jaw dropped in incredulity. "Then what the hell are you doing here with me?"

Felicity smiled as if my question was something she heard all the time. "To gain insight about the whole experience while standing by the sidelines instead of being the center of attention. And I'm writing my M.A. thesis paper on the cultural influcence of the real world's real housewives—the power and opportunity of a political wife to powerful men. And before you say I'm sexist in assuming the woman's role as an ally instead of the main figure of power, don't, because my goal is to point out just how much more influential the wife can be than the all-important-husband. You're a great case because you're from a completely unexpected background—much younger and from humble beginnings."

I think I had brief metaphorical nose-bleed there from Felicity's thesis pitch but I appreciated her candidness. For someone who obviously came from wealth and a high social class, Felicity was sweet and terribly endearing because of it, with no airs or attitude about herself.

"So am I a school project then?" I teased her. "Specimen A: Charlotte Samuels."

She grinned and shook her head. "Maxfield. Specimen A: Charlotte Maxfield."

Charlotte Maxfield—holy crap.

I felt the urge to flee and never look back but I forced myself another dose of fortitude.

I may be poor and down on my luck but I was never a coward.

"Yes, Charlotte Maxfield," I repeated, nodding slowly as if trying to get myself used to the sound of it by saying it out loud. "But please call me Charlotte. It helps to keep me grounded. I'll confess that Brandon's world intimidates me a little. I'm not used to it and it's not used to me. I'll need all the help I can get."

The twinkle in Felicity Brightside's eyes should've warned me.

"And I'll give you all the help you'll need, Charlotte," she promised. "We start today. Your brand new wardrobe is arriving in fifteen minutes."

******

It was well past eight at night when Rainbow Tornado finally left me in peace.

I was so exhausted I wouldn't have made it to my Saturday evening shift at Marlow's if I'd tried.

I practically sobbed when Bobby called to tell me that Marissa, another waitress, needed to pick up an extra shift this week and that if I didn't mind, she could cover for me. It sounded fishy considering Bobby never once called anyone up to try to guilt-trip them into giving away their shift but I was so relieved I told him I loved him and that I would have his babies once I was divorced. He just laughed and told me to enjoy my evening.

If only I could.

I was short on sleep but Felicity insisted that I didn't take a nap so that I'd be sleepy enough to hit the bed at a decent hour tonight.

Felicity Brightside was a force of nature. While we waited for the clothes, she called Gilles in for introductions in which he participated with a brief nod and a short grunt of a greeting. Then she provided me with a brand new cellphone and laptop, all synced up with hers for contacts and scheduling. In ten minutes, she managed to initiate me into a work-out routine schedule, a healthy diet plan, a finance system along with a couple of credit cards and a bank card, and a calendar for the wedding-related appointments. My brain was near-overloading at that point but she didn't slow down.

My brand new wardrobe arrived on the dot and whatever sparse furniture I had in my living room disappeared along with a considerable amount of floor space as clothes, shoes and accessories—several tons of them—were brought in. Armina, the personal shopper Felicity picked out for me, was spot-on with picking out my size and mixing items that flattered me the most. I protested in earnest at first but when she started putting things together, I reluctantly admitted that her choices were simple and elegant with a punch of bold colors and a young, playful flair. The three of us giggled like school girls at every outfit I modeled in front of the full-length mirror they'd also brought in.

Once the wardrobe was done and sorted into wheeled clothing racks stored in the spare bedroom, style team came in.

They were a mini-army of beauty militants led by Clyde who forced me down on a chair, slapped my eyes shut with a cooling gel pad that effectively disabled me from watching the transformation they were so adamant on putting me through.

After hours of hair and skin treatments, a cut and style, and some more primping from doing my nails to a very thorough leg-waxing (I drew the line at Clyde's insistence of the Brazilian), I felt brand new and very alien at first.

When small lumps of dark, honey-blonde hair strewn all over the floor greeted me after they took off my eye mask, I gasped out a small sob before I caught sight of myself in the mirror. As attached as I was to my hair, I couldn't deny that it looked so much better with less weight and volume—one of the many decisions I was relieved and grateful to have been left to the experts because I wasn't disappointed at all.

I wasn't a glamorous beauty—in fact, I was probably just average-looking—but I had the gift of clear, healthy skin, rare, dark blue-green eyes and a proportionate figure. I knew that with a little tweaking I could look better but I barely had the time or money to even give my hair a trim in the last year.

Brandon was used to beautiful women, if the things I've read about him were to be believed, and I supposed he didn't want to drag around a shabby wife to add to his suffering of having one forced on him in the first place. A mischievous side of me wanted to get back at him by becoming the exact opposite of his ideal wife but I decided against it. For one, I didn't want to become a pariah myself by dressing up like a homeless person when there were clothes to wear (that's just insulting to those who really couldn't afford any) and I also didn't want to embarrass Martin who must've had a darn good reason for matchmaking me with his son.

God, I'm going to see Martin tomorrow. He's going to know we're completely lying to him.

I had relented and traded my shift tomorrow at Marlow's so I could attend the brunch with Brandon and his father. I wanted to see the old man but I was terrified that he would see right through me while I sat there at the breakfast table, tortured by guilt and remorse for participating in this deception Brandon concocted.

I need to figure out why Martin wanted me to marry Brandon in the first place. If I could at least help him with that, I'd feel better.

I chanted that in my head every time I thought about tomorrow but after the day I've had, I was exhausted. I could barely form complete sentences in my head.

Stalking to the fridge that was newly restocked by a pair of guys from one of those fancy groceries who came over earlier at Felicity's instructions, I took out a plastic container of cut-up fruits and transferred some to a small bowl.

I was just snacking on it when the doorbell rang.

"Who is it this time?" I grumbled as I contemplated the amount of energy I'd use to get up from the table and answer the door. "A sleep-pattern analyst?"

The doorbell sounded off again and I groaned, pushing myself off the chair.

I peeked through the window to look at the porch—something Felicity insisted on in case it was a pap waiting for me outside—and saw the tall, dark outline of Brandon as he tapped his foot impatiently and glanced over at me through the window.

Reluctantly, I pulled the door open.

"You'll need to have this door reinforced and secured with additional locks," he said without preliminaries. "I could've just kicked it down."

"I'm amazed at your restraint," I blurted out at him.

"It's for your own safety, Charlotte," he reminded me softly.

"I'm so tired that I can't argue with you right now," I grumbled. "If that's what you came here for, goodnight and goodbye."

He raised a brow, raking in my appearance with his eyes from head to toe. "This is what I get after making you spend the day with fashion and beauty experts? You look like a ragamuffin."

I was in my old pajamas, a thin and faded shirt from high school, and my hair was twisted into a knot on top of my head.

I glowered at him. "Well, I'm not exactly dressed for company. If you want to get your money's worth, wait till tomorrow."

I turned away and moved to close the door on him but his hand shot out and pushed it back, shouldering his way inside my house.

Grinding my teeth, I waited while he stood by the foyer and looked around, observing everything with a keen eye and an insufferable silence. He was probably going to say that my house looked like a milk carton next.

"Looks cozy," he said with a half-smile, turning to me. "We'll hire a housekeeper to look after it while you're living with me."

I walked back to the dining room and lifted another forkful of fruits into my mouth. "Don't worry about it. I'll come in once a week to clean it."

He followed me and pulled out a chair for himself.

Arrogant bastard. Of course, he doesnt wait for an invitation. A chair will materialize out of thin air if Brandon Maxfield wished it.

"You can't be cleaning houses when we're married—that's just absurd," he said firmly. "Besides, you won't have time. You'll be busy doing all your social duties."