by Holly Rayner
While I stare open-mouthed at him, stunned by how preposterous that sentence sounds and how matter-of-factly Magnus says it, he reaches into a mini-fridge behind him, pulls out a container of strawberries, and drops one into each of our drinks.
“Fresh,” he adds. “My crew cuts them every morning I’m scheduled to fly. It’s part of the preparation routine for departure, actually.”
I sip my drink and look around, drinking in the sights. The inside of the plane is lined in white leather with dark wooden accents. The seat I’m sitting in is as wide as an armchair—in fact, it is an armchair, with cup holders in each of the arms that contract to support the stem of my champagne flute and expand to accommodate larger cups. There’s a TV here too, a big flat-screen, but I don’t feel like watching that. Instead, I turn and watch out the window as the landscape grows smaller and smaller below us.
Our departure is early in the morning, and so by midday we’re crossing the East Coast of the United States. Looking below me, I can see the place where the land ends, where the dots of light and patches of green and brown give way to the vast nothingness of the sea. Soon it’s nothing but ocean as far as the eye can see, and I have to look away. It makes me nervous, seeing all that emptiness laid out like that, knowing how much deeper it extends below the surface. I pull the shutter closed on the window and try not to think about it.
About twenty minutes later, Magnus has lunch brought out. Our trays hold freshly cooked grilled cheeses, this time with pancetta, and bowls of lobster bisque.
“My chef put his own spin on it when I described the meal we ate at your restaurant,” he says, unfolding his napkin and draping it across his knee. “Let me know what you think.”
I nod and smile my appreciation, but I’m torn. On the one hand, it was kind of him to remember our meal, to take it as seriously as any other we’ve had together. It was kind of him to try to reproduce it for me now. But on the other hand, did it really need to be dressed up with lobster and pancetta? I like the way my diner makes it. Why wasn’t that good enough?
I’m overthinking this. I take a bite. It’s delicious, I have to admit. He was just trying to be nice. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.
I fall into an uneasy nap after lunch. My mind is plagued by the lies that have already been necessary to build a fictional world around Magnus and myself, to sell us to the outside world as a credible couple. It seems so wrong that any relationship between two people should be so fragile, should require so many lies to prop it up. Somehow, the more real my feelings become for Magnus—because they are growing, developing into something significant—the more lies I seem to need to protect our story. It feels like every day the truth grows closer to the story we’re trying to sell, but every day some detail requires fabrication.
Six hours later, I put the window shade up and lean against the wall of the cabin as we start our descent into Norway. We’re over land now, and that’s less frightening, and I want to get my first glimpse of this new country. But Magnus touches my shoulder before I can get too absorbed in the landscape.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t spoken in a while.” His thumb traces the middle of my forehead, the crease where my eyebrows pull together. “What are you worrying about?”
I hesitate. It’s still hard to talk with Magnus about these things. Our friendship is the one thing that can certainly be counted as real at this point, but it’s still new. Can I share these thoughts that are going through my head, about how much it hurts to lie? Or will he simply tell me that I knew what I was getting into when I accepted his proposal?
“I was thinking about our meeting with the wedding planner,” I say finally.
It’s true enough. Magnus hired her after a recommendation from a business associate, and we had our first meeting with her yesterday. Her name is Stasia. She’s young, blond, and insanely perky, like a cheerleader who hasn’t been informed that the game’s already over. It’s probably a good personality trait for a wedding planner. Most of her brides are probably a lot squealier than I was.
The truth is, I think I was a bit of a drag. As Stasia sat us on the couch in her office, she looked us over with the eye of a film director and pronounced us “absolutely picturesque.” She hastened to assure me that “of course, every bride is beautiful, but some are beautiful in ways that aren’t complemented by their man’s particular beauty. In those wedding photos, the man will always look slightly wrong, because the photographer will always frame the shots to best flatter the bride. But just look at you two. Your good side is your left, and his is his right. Am I correct?”
I nodded. I understood what the woman was telling me, that having complementary good sides would mean that Magnus and I could face each other in our wedding photos without compromising the quality of the image, but it was only after the fact that I realized my reaction was a little lacking. In hindsight, I probably should have squealed or shown some other sign of delight.
Stasia next wanted to know how we had met, and I sat quietly as Magnus gave our prepared story of falling in love after meeting at the Vipers’ Nest competition. We’ve had occasion to tell this story a few times already, and I’ve noticed that with each telling Magnus embroiders the details a little more finely. The first time it was just a few sentences—we met, we got to talking, and we decided we’d like to see each other again. Now he’s invented a whole narrative about seeing me from across the room and not being able to take his eyes off me.
“I can’t remember what she was wearing that evening,” he told Stasia, “but I’ll never forget how beautiful she was.”
Stasia let out an exclamation. She was thoroughly charmed. I was thoroughly amused. Was she really falling for this?
“What a lovely story!” she cried. “What a lovely couple.”
Ah, yes. She was.
Now, as we circle the runway, I can’t get poor Stasia out of my mind. She was doing her job, and doing it well. She was trying to drum up excitement the only way she knew how, and she must have been stymied by a bride who couldn’t show her any. My performances lately have been completely subpar, and I know that I need to do better. If I’m to play the role of a bride, I need to do what Magnus has been doing so well already and lean into our story. I need to act like it makes me joyful to tell it, like I’m head over heels in love and can’t wait to walk down the aisle. I need to be flushed and giddy, not solemn and businesslike.
And I need to figure out how to do it fast because the next people I’m going to have to tell the story to are Magnus’ parents. They, ultimately, matter a lot more than a wedding planner.
Stasia was essentially practice, but I really want Magnus’ parents to like me. I want them to feel that I’m eager to marry their son so they’ll be happy about our union. Impressing the future in-laws is hard enough under normal circumstances, but in our case, it could be all but impossible.
I just hate the idea of lying to them. It feels like such a betrayal. Especially because I don’t have parents of my own. I know Magnus’ parents will not be my real family. I know that. Nothing about this marriage is going to be real. But for the time we’re legally bound, I’ll be legally bound to his parents as well, and Magnus clearly thought that was important enough that I should at least get to know them. But our whole relationship is going to be built on the foundation of the lie I’m about to tell.
When they find out the truth, as they’re going to have to eventually, they will, of course, forgive Magnus for misleading them. He’s their son. They aren’t going to cut him out of their lives. But why in the world should they look past my having lied? They’re sure to hate me for it, and I’m laying the groundwork for that today.
It’s an awful feeling.
Magnus is still trying to figure out why my thoughts are lingering over our wedding planner.
“Didn’t you like Stasia?” he asks. “I can hire someone else if her style didn’t suit you
. Just tell me what you want to do.”
“No, no, she’s fine,” I say quickly. “It isn’t her. It was the fact that I had to lie to her. I felt terrible about it, Magnus. I know I don’t even know her, and maybe it shouldn’t matter, but it felt so strange and deceptive to sit there and say those things about how in love we were, to see her gush about us, and to know that none of it is real. But it’s not even her, really. I’m more worried about your parents. The idea of lying to them…it scares me. It makes me feel bad about myself.”
Magnus takes my hand. For a moment I feel myself slip out of reality and into the pretend world we’ve been selling where he and I really are in love, where there really is intimacy between us. Or is it pretend?
I have to admit I’m still unsure. Nothing that’s happened since our night of passion has helped me define the nature of our relationship, but I’ve been spending more time with Magnus than with anyone else. He does feel like what having a serious boyfriend would be like. We speak on the phone daily, we go places together—not just fancy dates anymore, but sometimes even mundane places like the grocery store. But on the other hand, here he is holding my hand on a private jet that’s about to land in Norway.
How am I supposed to believe that any of this is real?
“Leah,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine, his tone weighty and serious. “Please don’t feel bad. What you’re doing for me is a wonderful thing, don’t you see that? You’re giving me the greatest gift anyone could.”
“I’m not giving it,” I say, looking down at our hands clasped together. “It’s a deal. I made a trade.”
“You’re benefiting, it’s true, but not nearly as much as I am.” He squeezes my hand. “Leah, you were always going to be a success. I know you don’t feel it sometimes. I understand that can be hard. But you’re talented and hardworking, and someday it was going to happen for you. All I’m doing is getting you there a little faster. And I’m happy to help, believe me.
“As for me,” he goes on, “well, if it wasn’t for your help, I would be deported! I’d be sent back to Norway, forced to leave the life I’ve built in the United States. Forced to leave the company I’ve created. I love that company like it’s my child. I’ve poured my heart and soul into it, and it would kill me to hand over the reins to someone else and leave it behind. Because of you, I have a real chance at staying.”
“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” I say. “You could have found someone else to marry. A lot of girls would have jumped at the opportunity. ‘Seattle’s Most Eligible Billionaire,’ isn’t that what they called you?”
“But I needed someone I could trust,” he says. “Someone who wouldn’t sell me out to the press or the immigration officials. Someone who wasn’t only interested in my money. Add to that the need to find someone who I liked enough to spend time with, and well…let’s just say I’m very lucky you said yes, Leah. I know exactly how lucky I am. Believe me.”
I don’t respond. I’m not sure what to say. I never knew he thought of me that way, as someone uniquely valuable to him. I assumed a marriage to any American woman would be as good as any other, and I was only chosen because of our shared history. But if he’s telling the truth now, it goes further than that. It’s not as if Magnus hasn’t met any other women since becoming a success. The tech world might not be packed with women, but there are definitely some, and I’m sure he’s met some in the course of his personal life, too. And yet he chose me.
For the first time since we made our agreement in his office, it really does feel like a choice.
And if that’s true—if we’re choosing each other—how different is this from a real marriage? The line has become so blurred that I can’t make it out anymore. I care about Magnus, I’m attracted to him, I’m voluntarily entering into this contract with him. Maybe there is something real about all this. Maybe I don’t have to go into the meeting with his family feeling like a liar. I can tell them the truth—how Magnus and I met, what our first date was like, that he means a lot to me. There’s so much overlap in what I want to say about the man sitting beside me and what someone who was in love with him would want to say.
The plane makes a wide arc, tilting in the air so I’m looking down on the Norwegian landscape. Magnus leans over my shoulder and points.
“That’s Oslo,” he says. “Isn’t it beautiful? My favorite city in the world. No matter how long I stay in the U.S., no matter how much a home to me it becomes, Oslo will always be lovelier.”
I take it in. It’s a port city, with several large boats tethered to docks. The plane veers back and forth across the coastline as if unsure where it’s going to put down. I pull away from the window, not wanting to watch this part. Landings make me nervous.
Magnus notices. A moment later his arm is around my shoulders, his hand squeezing mine.
“It’s all right,” he says quietly. “Nils is a skilled pilot. Hundreds of landings and he’s never gone wrong. You have nothing to worry about.”
I nod, willing myself to believe him, and relax against his firm chest. His arm tightens around me, but his fingers are exceedingly gentle as they stroke my upper arm.
This vacation is definitely starting to feel more romantic.
Chapter 17
Leah
For several seconds after I wake up, I don’t know where I am except that I’m in Magnus’ arms. He is warm and familiar, strong and protective, and lying in his embrace I feel as if the two of us have been together much longer than we really have. Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s the only thing I recognize, the only piece of home I have with me.
Not that it isn’t lovely. The memories come back in little bursts—the plane touching down, the first breath of sharp sea air, the car ride through brick streets and past buildings both new and old until we reached a dark wooden house built on the side of a hill. Magnus led me inside and offered to open a bottle of wine, but I was exhausted from the trip and turned him down. I wanted only to get to bed.
Oddly, this was the first moment it occurred to me to wonder what the sleeping arrangements were. It wasn’t as if Magnus and I hadn’t shared a bed before, but he couldn’t have brought me to Norway on the assumption that we would continue doing it, could he? That would be presumptuous in the extreme.
But at the same time, I had to admit I sort of wanted it. There was a part of me that longed for the very warmth and comfort I’m enjoying right now, the feel of his arms around me as I slept and as I woke. Going to sleep for the first time in a foreign country would be infinitely more anxiety-inducing if I had to do it alone.
So after Magnus offered me a bedroom and bid me good night, turning, I could only suppose, to go to another room of his own, I called after him—“stay”—and he did. In a heartbeat, without thinking about it, so I knew it must have been what he wanted all along. He crossed the room and swept me into an embrace, pulled me into the bed, and even though I had been so tired just a few moments ago, the heat rose in me and woke me up, and I indulged with Magnus in hours of slow exploration of each other.
Now I have another kind of exploration on my mind. I slip out of his arms, careful not to wake him, and pull on the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. I didn’t see the house last night. We went straight to bed. Magnus, though, called this his “Oslo home,” and I want to see how grand the second home of my billionaire future husband is. I don’t even own one home, and this man has one in a country he rarely even visits. It’s staggering.
I carefully make my way through to the living room. The light out here is so bright it hurts my eyes, and I realize I’m staring out through a wall made entirely of glass that overlooks the ocean. After a minute my eyes adjust. The space is vast, covered in thick white carpet and simple looking black furniture that sits low to the ground. It’s beautiful.
A voice from behind startles me.
“Do you like the view?” Magnus asks. He’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom in nothing but his boxer briefs, watching me.
“This is one of my favorite places in the world to go when I need a bit of quiet,” he says. “It’s so restful.”
He comes over and stands behind me, hands on my shoulders, turning me toward the massive window. It strikes me that even though he’s nearly naked, he can stand here comfortably in front of this window. We have a staggeringly gorgeous view of the ocean, but no one could possibly see in.
“This is wasted on you,” I tell him, turning in his arms to embrace him. “This is the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen, and you don’t even live in it. You should give me this place for marrying you instead of a business boost.”
I’m kidding, but there’s a part of me that loves the house so much I can’t believe we’re fighting to keep him in America and away from this. He must really love his work.
He gives me a little squeeze. “We’re invited to my parents’ house for breakfast,” he says. “Are you ready to meet them?”
I’m not, but I know it’s why we’ve come, so I nod.
The car ride to Magnus’ parents’ house should be wonderful—they’re outside the city, so it’s my first chance to see the Norwegian countryside—but I’m too nervous to really take it in. I’m looking out the window, but I don’t really see what’s on the other side.
Magnus takes my hand, giving it a squeeze as the car pulls up to a beautiful house nestled against a hillside. It looks like the sort of place a fantasy creature might live. I step out of the car—marveling at the way this country continues to surprise me—and follow Magnus up the flagstone path to the front door.
“My brother and sister won’t be joining us,” he says over his shoulder. “They’re unable to get away from their own families this morning. So you’ll just be meeting my parents today.”
So much the better, as far as I’m concerned. That’s two fewer people to align against me. Not that I think they’re going to gang up on me, exactly. But the Johansens are a unit, and I’m the new person, brought before them for judgment. It’s less scary with just Magnus’ parents. I have Magnus on my side. That makes us closer to even.
