It was yet another event to showcase appearances—this time, organized by Ethan's company and hosted in one of his five-star hotels. A philanthropy gala where high-profile men gathered under the guise of goodwill, free-willed donations, and elegant charm.
"I mustn't attend every organization event," I told Ethan as he handed me the invitation like it was just another chore.
"That's exactly why you have to attend—on my arm," he replied, not missing a beat. "I need the idea that I have a wife to sink in before the big contract. If this plays right, I could take a forever break."
Once again, it was all about business for Ethan.
As I looked at him, brushing imaginary lint off the shoulder of his custom tux, I asked, "You know, we've never really talked about what happens after the contract expires."
He turned to me with mild surprise. "Like what?"
"Like… what we tell people. Why we separated. I mean, my life will be an unending stream of questions about divorcing the people's man," I said teasingly.
He gave a quiet chuckle. "The people's man?"
I smiled. "Well, you are."
His voice softened. "My PR team will make sure the ends are tied. Don't worry so much. Practically, we can tell them we wanted different things. That should sum it up."
I nodded slowly. "I guess so."
The night began to unfold from there.
Camera flashes. Little whispers that felt like roars. The devouring eyes of Ethan's exes. It was different this time—he wasn't just attending, he was the host.
My makeup was simple, just as I instructed. Clara had picked a silky purple dress that clung just right, paired with high heels I had finally learned to walk confidently in. My hair was pulled up with precise elegance, and my diamond-studded clutch added just the right level of flash. I wore a cologne specially picked by Ethan's fragrance consultant. The truth was, I could smell the difference in me—my skin, my poise, my scent. Living at Ethan's had changed more than my wardrobe.
Ethan, on the other hand, looked carved out of polished wealth. His tux fit like it was stitched to his body. His signature cologne hit before he entered the room. His hair was styled immaculately, and his diamond watch alone could buy two luxury cars.
"Oh, Mr. O'Martins," I muttered to myself. "I see why hearts break."
Following his tradition, Ethan stood at the stairwell to guide me down to the car. A sleek, black Lamborghini awaited.
"We're taking that?" I asked, brows raised.
"Yeah," he replied, without hesitation. "We need to make an entrance. And I'd rather drive us myself tonight."
The bodyguards followed behind in SUVs. From miles away, the O'Martins Hotel shimmered like a jewel. Paparazzi camped outside, camera flashes like lightning. Ethan placed a protective hand near my eyes as we walked in, shielding me from the blinding lights.
Inside, the hallway was a stream of diamonds and designer labels. Champagne glasses clinked in perfectly manicured hands. Ethan leaned toward me and whispered, "Follow my lead. Just relax."
"Relax?" I repeated. "There's nothing relaxing about being here."
I knew I was being watched.
And then came the devil in heels.
Vivian.
All smiles, poised in her statement heels and designer gown. She moved with feline grace, hugging Ethan tightly, kissing both his cheeks. I pretended not to notice.
Then she turned to me. "Lena... You're not looking bad."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Neither are you," I replied coolly.
Her fake smile barely held.
Ethan turned to me. "Vivian will show you around. I'll be back."
Don't leave me with her. My inner voice begged.
But he was gone.
"You look good in purple," Vivian said, circling me. "Who chose it?"
"Clara did," I answered.
"Who's Clara?"
"One of the housemaids."
"Housemaid?" Vivian repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Close enough to pick your outfit?"
I said nothing.
She leaned in. "Just don't make it obvious tonight. No clinging. No distance either. Smile. Wave. And don't drink too much—most of these cocktails are more alcohol than juice."
Ethan returned, accompanied by a distinguished older man.
"Babe," he said, loud enough for those nearby.
I blinked. Babe?
"Meet Mr. Gills. My godfather and my late dad's closest friend. He actually designed this building. Knows every emergency exit like the back of his hand."
The men laughed, and so did the crowd around us.
Ethan calling me "babe" still echoed in my ears.
Suddenly, we were ushered into the auction room. I barely caught my breath when someone tapped my shoulder.
"Hey, beautiful," a voice said.
George.
Ethan's arch-rival.
The one who had never forgiven Ethan for stealing his ex-girlfriend.
Ethan tensed but said nothing.
"Hey, Ethan," George said with a smirk. "Aren't you the luckiest man alive? Always getting the best in the room."
Ethan's grip on my arm tightened, guiding me faster through the crowd.
The auction room was lit with golden chandeliers. Velvet seats faced the stage. I saw women flirt with Ethan with open invitation in their eyes, and he—he just smiled back, unfazed.
Vivian sat beside him.
Then came the announcement. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the 10th annual Philanthropy Gala hosted by none other than Mr. Ethan O'Martins and his beautiful wife, Lena!"
Applause thundered through the hall.
We sat, and I felt Ethan's cold hand reach for mine. I turned to look at him.
He leaned in and whispered, "People are watching."
Is this still part of the contract? My heart asked what my mouth couldn't say.
As I began to withdraw, his hand tightened.
The auction began. Art pieces. Antique collections. Then came a painting that stilled my breath—of a lioness carrying her cub in her mouth. One angle looked brutal, as though she was devouring it. The other revealed she was saving it.
Ethan leaned in. "Do you like it?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
Vivian scoffed. "That won't be worth much. Unknown artist."
"I think I like it," Ethan replied—and raised his paddle.
The bidding escalated fast.
$5,000. $10,000. $15,000.
Until finally, "Sold! To Mr. Ethan O'Martins for one million dollars!"
"You didn't have to," I whispered, stunned.
"If you like it that much, I do," he replied. "You're my wife."
Is this still pretense?
I opened my mouth, unsure whether to thank him or warn him again about wasting a million dollars on a painting no one else wanted. But the warmth in his eyes made the words stick to my throat.
Was he still playing the role?
Was it just business?
Ethan looked away before I could read him further, his fingers slowly loosening from mine.
Vivian gave a polite clap beside us, her smile as tight as the bodice of her dress. "Well, that was dramatic," she murmured, tilting her champagne glass.
"She liked it," Ethan replied, not even sparing her a glance.
I could feel her fury like a quiet storm beside me.
The auction continued but I barely paid attention. Ethan didn't touch me again, but his presence was undeniable. The scent of his cologne, the weight of his earlier words, the memory of his cold hand wrapped around mine—it all stayed with me like a brand.
By the time we exited the hall, the cameras were back in our faces.
We stood for the press photos. Ethan turned slightly toward me.
"Kiss me," he said, his voice low and certain.
"What?"
"They'll expect it. I just spent a million on a painting for you. Let's not ruin the fantasy."
I froze, the lights blinding me. The crowd murmuring. Then I felt his hand on the small of my back, gentle yet firm, guiding me.
He didn't wait.
His lips touched mine—not rushed, not entirely fake either.
It was soft, composed… too composed.
But my heart flipped anyway.
It ended in a second. Barely a second.
He turned back to the cameras, perfectly composed, while I stood there, wondering if I had just lost grip of the lines we drew.
As the flashes faded and we were guided toward the exit, Ethan leaned close again.
"That painting wasn't just for show," he said calmly.
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
He looked at me, a quiet intensity in his eyes.
"Sometimes what looks like harm… is just a different kind of protection."
I turned back, and Ethan was already walking toward someone else—with Vivian catching up beside him, hand lightly on his arm.
As Ethan's hand wrapped around Lena's, a camera flash caught the moment—and Vivian's eyes caught something else entirely.
She didn't clap when the applause echoed for the million-dollar painting Ethan won.
She didn't smile when he turned to whisper something to Lena.
Instead, she leaned back in her seat, her jaw tight, nails digging into her clutch.
"Cute," she muttered under her breath, loud enough for Lena to hear. "Very method acting."
Lena gave her a brief look, unfazed.
"You should try it sometime," she replied calmly.
Vivian's eyes narrowed. "Careful, dear. Ethan's always been good at making people believe things… until he doesn't need to anymore."
Lena smiled sweetly. "Thanks for the warning."
Vivian turned her head sharply, face masked again in that polite society smile—but her grip on her clutch only tightened.
Across the room, Christian stood silently.
He watched Ethan. Then Lena. Then back again.
Vivian could play her games.
Ethan could pretend not to feel.
But Christian had seen enough to know the truth.
Lena wasn't pretending anymore.
She was falling.
And Ethan, blind behind his walls, might never see it…
Until she was too far gone.