The next morning, the arena is aware of my call once more.

I awaken to the sound of my telephone buzzing nonstop. The display is flooded with messages, emails, and news notifications. Headlines scream out from every direction“" Damian Wolfe Announces Surprise Engagement to Arielle Monroe”, “Billionaire Ties Knot with Fallen Heiress”, “From Scandal to Spotlight: Arielle Monroe Makes a Comeback”. My throat tightens as I scroll through the mess. Some humans are excited. Some are curious. Most are cruel.

They all want to recognize how I pulled this off.

I don’t have the solution.

I sit up straight on the mattress, pull the blankets around me, and stare out the window. This city still feels unexpected, even though I’ve been here for some weeks now. I moved to escape. I by no means notion I’d be dragged back into the spotlight with the aid of marrying a person like Damian Wolfe. But here I am, looking at my call fashion like I’m a sort of superstar.

My heart beats closely. I marvel that my father would be proud. Or horrified.

I slightly have time to breathe when a knock lands sharply on my door. Before I can solve it, it swings open.

It’s LeahDamian’s assistant. She’s tall, wearing military, hair perfectly glossy. Her face is tough but now not unkind.

“Good morning, Miss Monroe,” she says. “I’ve been advised to escort you to the penthouse.”

“The penthouse?” I blink.

“Mr. Wolfe has arranged to be able to pass in with him immediately. You’re anticipated to be visible together.”

Of course. The lie has to appear real.

“I want a moment,” I whisper, brushing my fingers over my face.

Leah glances at her watch. “You have ten minutes.”

She leaves as fast as she came.

I take a deep breath and rise. The mirror doesn’t lie. My skin is faded, and my eyes are tired. I wash my face, brush my hair, and pull on something soft and cream-coloured something Damian would approve of. Elegant but now not loud. Calm and careful. Like me.

When I reach the automobile ready out of doors, I see him. Damian is statue by the door, sporting a black fit and sun shades, a smartphone in a single hand, and coffee in the other. He’s calm as ever. A man used to power. Used to pretending.

His eyes slide to me when I approach, and for a moment, I swear I see something shift in them. Not marvel. Not admiration. Something quieter. Maybe a challenge. Maybe curiosity.

He opens the door for me without a word.

The experience is silent.

We reach the penthouse. It’s higher than I’ve ever been in my life. The metropolis stretches under us like it belongs to him. And maybe it does.

Inside, the whole lot is glass and gold. Cold, expensive, useless.

He walks ahead of me, no apology in his steps.

“This is your facet,” he says, gesturing to an extensive hallway with double doorways. “I don’t expect you to stay in my room.”

I nod, too crushed to talk.

“There’s a media event in two hours,” he adds. “We’ll make it brief. A few smiles. A few statements. Nothing extra.”

I swallow hard. “Do you usually stay like this?”

He glances around. “Alone?”

“No,” I say softly. “So controlled.”

He looks at me then. And I see a flicker of something I didn’t anticipate pain.

“Control is the handiest thing that’s ever been real for me,” he says. “Everything else… disappears.”

I don’t know what to mention.

Instead, I stroll to the home windows. The sky is huge, and the metropolis feels some distance away, nearly like I’m floating. Maybe that’s how he survived by no means touching the ground.

Two hours later, I’m standing in front of dozens of flashing cameras.

The press conference is within the garden rooftop of Wolfe Tower. There is white plant life. Soft music. Rows of journalists and photographers. And in the center of it allus.

Damian stands beside me, his hand lightly resting on my lower back. It’s barely a touch, but I sense it anywhere.

He leans in near, murmuring, “Smile. Don’t allow them to see the truth.”

I smile. I inform myself I’m k.

We solved a few questions. Most are directed at him. He talks about love in a way that sounds rehearsed, but not faux. When they ask how we met, he lies so superbly I nearly overlook it’s now not actual.

And then, they turn to me.

“Arielle, how does it feel to be back inside the spotlight after so much... Controversy?”

I freeze.

Damian’s hand presses against my return, a silent reminder.

I clean my throat and look at the cameras. “It’s now not about going again,” I say quietly. “It’s approximately starting over.”

That earns a murmur of approval.

One reporter calls out, “Did Damian help you find yourself again?”

I need to snigger. I need to cry. I need to run. But rather, I take a look at him.

And for a second simply one 2dI say the first honest element all day.

“He reminded me that I’m now not damaged,” I whisper. “Just recovery.”

The crowd falls silent.

He turns his face to me. Something in his eyes shifts once more. Not bloodless. Not unreadable. But something almost… soft.

The convention ends, and we’re escorted back upstairs.

Inside the elevator, it’s simply the two people. The silence is thick.

“You did nicely,” he says.

“You lie nicely,” I said.

He smirks. “It’s an ability.”

I look at him then. “Did you imply it? When you said you don’t consider love?”

His face hardens. “Love is a distraction. Love makes you susceptible.”

I nod, however, deep down, I wonder if he believes that. Or if someone once taught him to accept it as true.

Back inside the penthouse, I walk to my new bedroom. It’s too large. Too clean. Too lonely.

I sit on the edge of the mattress and pull my knees to my chest.

This isn’t home. It’s not even close.

But for now, it’s my international.

And Damian Wolfe is part of it.

Later that night, I stepped out onto the balcony. The wind is cold, brushing over my pores and skin like a warning. I stare at the city lighting. Somewhere accessible, Liam and Vivian are watching me. Probably giggling. Probably jealous. And I don’t care. Let them surprise. Let them choke on it.

Behind me, I pay attention to footsteps.

Damian seems beside me, arms in his pockets.

“I hate all of this,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he replies.

I glance at him. “Then why do it?”

He shrugs. “Because hate is a more potent weapon than fear.”

I look down at my arms. “You think this can be a painting?”

“I will comprehend it,” he says. “And if it doesn’t…”

He turns to me, his eyes serious now.

“I gained not allow them to damage you again.”

My coronary heart jumps.

For the first time, I see something in his face that doesn’t look like control. It seems like a promise.

Maybe even safety.

And for a second, I neglect that that is a lie.

I forgot that I signed my heart away.

Because in his silence, I feel more secure than I have in years.

And that terrifies me.