The Fake

Atticus had severely underestimated this woman's drinking capabilities.

'Daphne' had already downed at least six glasses of red wine and a flute of champagne, yet she was still on her feet, bubbly and bright as ever. She mingled with the guests, practically dragging Atticus around with her as she did her rounds.

That, in Atticus's opinion, was a clear enough sign that this woman definitely was not his wife. Daphne wouldn't have been able to walk straight after the third glass, much less prance about like Saint Nicholas's reindeers.

Finally, the women who had come over to give their well wishes left, leaving the couple alone once more. 'Daphne' rubbed her sore neck, glancing at Atticus for a split second, desire lacing her eyes.

"My shoulders and neck feel so sore…" she grumbled, a whine tilting her tone at the end of her sentence. "Could you give me a rub?"