The following evening comes all too soon. It seems like I hardly shut my eyes before I'm drawn into another day, another deception, another version of me that I still don’t identify with. The sun has hardly dipped below the horizon, yet the penthouse is already alive with activity. Stylists arrive and depart, pulling along rolling racks of dresses, boxes of shoes, and cases of jewelry that glimmer as if they are from a storybook.

However, this is not a storybook tale.

It’s a contract I agreed to, and now I must appear as the ideal woman beside the ideal man.

This evening is the Wolfe Foundation Gala. Damian mentions it's significant something his deceased mother initiated. Individuals in this world don't merely arrive to dance. They arrive to gauge strength, to exchange smiles and whispers. And now I'm expected to be by his side as if I've always been meant to be there.

Leah assists me in putting on the rich red satin that embraces my waist and cascades like water over my legs. It’s lovely. Exquisitely painful. I resemble the type of woman I never imagined I would be again. Shiny lips. Dusky eyes. Heels that elevate my height, more defined. Inaccessible.

As I enter the hallway, I see Damian waiting, and his gaze rests on me longer than I anticipate.

“"You appear..." he begins, then halts, clearing his throat. "It functions."

Does it function?

I lift my eyebrows. "You’re saying I don’t appear to be a total mess."

He gives a slight smirk. "That's not what I meant."

Yet I perceive it in his gaze. Consent. Perhaps something gentler, something he keeps to himself.

We remain silent until we get in the car.

The limousine is silent, chilly, and charged with a tension unrelated to the gala. I observe him in the soft light, his silhouette serene and inscrutable. Damian Wolfe embodies polished excellence fitted tuxedo, sharp jawline, stance as if he was destined to lead. Yet there’s an intensity in his quietness this evening.

“Feeling anxious?” he inquired abruptly, his tone softer than normal.

I chuckle quietly. “Fearful.”

“Alright,” he replies. "Implies that you value their perception of you."

I face him. “Is that the reason you constantly appear so composed? “Is it because you don’t care?”

He catches my gaze, and for the first time this evening, his expression breaks just a bit. “I care excessively.” "That is the issue."

Before I can reply, the vehicle comes to a halt.

The gala is underway. The entryway is illuminated by golden lights, featuring a red carpet stretching down to a multitude of flashing cameras. The outside atmosphere is alive with sounds voices, footsteps, clicks, and reporters yelling inquiries. Damian is the first to exit, fastening his jacket, his expression already set for performance.

He reaches out his hand to me, and I grasp it.

As soon as our fingers make contact, a change occurs.

It’s neither electric nor wild.

It's stable. Robust. Secure.

And it makes my heart race for a reason I’m reluctant to acknowledge.

We walk together down the carpet. His hand remains at my back, just like the day before. But this time, it’s different. He leans in slightly as we move, whispering names into my ear so I’ll recognize people when they greet me. He tells me when to smile, when to nod, when to hold his hand tighter.

I hate how much I need guidance.

I hate how much I trust it.

Inside, the ballroom is breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers sparkle above us. Every table is set like dreamwhite orchids, gold-trimmed glassware, wine that probably costs more than my rent for a year. I see CEOs, politicians, celebrities, and women whose faces I vaguely recognize from tabloids.

Every single one of them turns to look at me.

At us.

I feel my chest tighten.

But Damian leans in again, his voice barely a whisper.

“Just breathe.”

I do.

Somehow, with him standing beside me, I manage to keep my head up.

We make rounds. Smile. Toast. Laugh at things I barely hear. He introduces me with ease“my fiancée, Arielle Monroe,” he says over and over again, and each time it lands heavier in my chest. I watch him lie so beautifully it’s hard not to believe him myself.

And then, something shifts.

Across the room, I spotted someone I never wanted to see again.

Vivian.

Her hair is lighter now, lips redder, her dress clinging to her body like a warning. She walks toward us like she owns the place. I feel the blood drain from my face.

Damian feels it too. “Who is she?”

“My... former best friend,” I whisper.

Vivian stops in front of me, smiling like the venom she carries is sugar.

“Arielle,” she purrs. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

I want to turn away, but Damian steps in smoothly.

“Have we met?” he asks her, voice cold.

Vivian smiles, but there’s a flicker of something behind her eyes. “Vivian Clarke. A… friend from the past.”

“Hmm.” He offers no handshake, no warmth. “How interesting that the past shows up at my gala.”

Her smile fades slightly.

I keep my head high. “We’re not friends anymore, Vivian.”

She shrugs, unbothered. “Pity. Well, enjoy your night, darling. I hope Damian knows what he’s getting into.”

She turns and walks away.

I feel like I can’t breathe.

But Damian pulls me close, his hand gently sliding around my waist.

“She’s nothing,” he says in a low voice. “Don’t let her ruin this for you.”

I blink up at him. “Why are you being... nice?”

He looks down at me, eyes dark and unreadable. “Because I’ve seen women like her destroy people. I won’t let them do that to you.”

And for a moment, I forget everything else.

I forget the lie, the contract, the cameras.

I just saw him.

After dinner, after the speeches, after the toast we find a moment to breathe. He takes my hand and leads me out onto the balcony. The air is cool, the city lights below glowing like fireflies. The music inside is soft now, floating through the doors.

We’re alone.

And something about the way he looks at me now makes my heart race.

“You did good tonight,” he says softly.

“I only managed because of you.”

He shakes his head. “You would’ve survived. You’re stronger than you know.”

I swallow. My chest aches again. Not from pain this time, but from... longing.

No one’s said that to me in years.

No one’s looked at me like that either.

He steps closer. Our hands brush.

“I’m not used to kindness,” I whisper.

“Me either,” he says.

And then he does something I never saw coming.

He lifts his hand slowly, tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, and lingers there, fingers warm against my cheek.

I don’t pull away.

I don’t want to.

“Arielle,” he utters my name as if it holds significance.

"I realize this isn't real," I murmur, my breath unsteady. “However, at this moment... it doesn’t seem insincere.”

He tilts his head slightly, his thumb gliding along my jawline. “I’m aware.”

We are very near now. Just a breath apart.

Then…

He leans forward.

His lips connect with mine.

It’s not crazy. It’s not hurried. It’s cautious. Unhurried. Profound.

As if he’s doing more than just kissing me.

He’s attempting to experience something he believed was gone.

And perhaps I am as well.

As he withdraws, his eyes appear deeper in color.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"What for?"

“To add to the complexity of what is already there.”

My heart falters.

I’m uncertain about what we are turning into. I'm unsure if it's genuine, or merely a component of the game we're engaged in. However, there is something within me that understands this

That kiss wasn’t an act.

It served as a caution.

An initiation.

And perhaps... an error we will both wish to repeat.