The suit was too expensive.
Smyle noticed it the moment Rayden placed it on the bed.
Black. Clean lines. Tailored so precisely it looked less like clothing and more like ownership. The kind of suit that didn't ask whether you wanted to wear it—only whether you would behave while doing so.
"There's an event," Rayden said calmly. "You'll attend with me."
Smyle didn't look up from his phone.
"What kind?"
"A charity gala."
Smyle hummed. "Of course it is."
Rayden didn't react.
"You'll smile," Rayden continued, voice even. "You'll stay close. You'll let them see what they expect to see."
Smyle finally looked at him then.
"And what do they expect?"
Rayden's gaze held his.
"A happy marriage."
Smyle smiled first.
Not soft.
Not shy.
Professional.
"Got it," he said. "I can act."
Something in Rayden's eyes flickered at that word.
THE EVENT
The venue glowed.
Crystal lights. Marble floors. Soft music that hummed wealth instead of warmth. Cameras flashed the moment Rayden stepped inside, hands already reaching for microphones, smiles practiced and sharp.
And Smyle—
Smyle walked beside him perfectly.
His hand slipped into Rayden's arm without hesitation. His posture was relaxed, elegant. He smiled at the right moments, laughed softly when someone made a joke, leaned in just enough when Rayden spoke.
He was flawless.
"Mr. Rayden," someone greeted. "And your husband —he looks radiant."
Rayden's hand settled at Smyle's waist automatically.
Smyle didn't flinch.
Didn't stiffen.
He leaned into the touch instead, head tilting slightly toward Rayden's shoulder like it belonged there.
Rayden felt it like a warning.
"You're spoiling me tonight," Smyle murmured softly, just loud enough for nearby ears.
A lie.
Delivered beautifully.
Rayden's grip tightened.
Cameras loved them.
The whispers followed them through the room.
"They look close." "So affectionate." "Did you see the way he looks at Rayden?"
They didn't see the way Smyle's eyes emptied the moment no one was watching.
THE PERFORMANCE
Rayden guided Smyle through the crowd, hand always present—on his waist, his lower back, his arm.
Smyle allowed everything.
He even initiated some of it.
A hand smoothing Rayden's lapel.
A brief lean close while laughing.
Fingers brushing Rayden's wrist when someone spoke too long.
Rayden should have been satisfied.
Instead, something in his chest tightened.
Because Smyle wasn't reacting.
He was executing.
"You're very composed tonight," Rayden murmured while they stood near the balcony.
Smyle smiled at the city lights.
"You asked me to behave."
"That's not what I meant."
Smyle turned his head slightly, resting it against Rayden's shoulder—public, visible, perfect.
"Relax," he whispered. "I'm yours tonight. Isn't that what matters?"
Rayden's jaw clenched.
"Yes," he said.
But the word tasted wrong.
THE LINE
Later, someone asked for a photo.
Rayden wrapped an arm around Smyle's shoulders.
Smyle turned his face up instinctively.
Too close.
Their noses brushed.
For half a second, the world narrowed.
The camera clicked.
And Smyle pulled away immediately.
Just one step.
Just enough.
That was the line.
The rest of the evening followed the same rhythm:
Close in public.
Distant in private.
Warm smiles for the world.
Cool silence between them.
AFTER
The car ride home was quiet.
No leaning.
No accidental touches.
Smyle stared out the window, expression unreadable.
Rayden watched him openly now.
"You did well," Rayden said finally.
Smyle nodded. "You paid for a performance. I delivered."
Rayden frowned.
"That's not—"
Smyle turned to him then.
Eyes calm.
Voice steady.
"We're clear, right?" he asked. "Public is public. Private stays private."
Rayden didn't answer immediately.
Because for the first time since the marriage—
Smyle was setting terms.
"…Yes," Rayden said slowly.
Smyle looked away again.
"Good."
THE DOOR
Back at the villa, Smyle removed his shoes quietly and headed toward his room.
Rayden watched him go.
"You won't stay?" Rayden asked.
Smyle paused at the door.
"For what?" he replied, genuinely confused.
Rayden had no answer.
Smyle went inside and closed the door softly behind him.
No slam.
No drama.
Just absence.
Rayden stood there longer than he meant to.
Because tonight, in a room full of people—
Smyle had been his.
And now, alone—
Rayden had never felt further from him. It was like the lines between them are being strong rather than breaking.
The night was like a year for them because none of them slept.
Smyle was changing sides , walking in room, listening soft music , reading, he did nearly everything but he didn't slept .
Rayden was watching ceiling . His gaze was fixed . In one point . From hours and all he was doing was to think about how he used to tease Smyle, how Smyle used to smile at him ... Not in act but in real life , how Smyle took care of him when he was injured, how Smyle slept in floor just because he was taking care of Rayden. All thoughts were running in his head like it's a car race.
THE COLD MORNING
Morning arrived without warmth.
Thin winter light slipped through the curtains, pale and distant, settling over the villa like it didn't belong there.
Smyle woke first.
The room was cold enough that his breath felt sharp when he exhaled. He sat up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.
The villa was silent.
Too clean. Too still.
In the kitchen, Rayden stood by the counter, already dressed in a crisp shirt and coat, a cup of untouched coffee cooling beside him. He looked like he hadn't slept. Or maybe he had—but sleep had never softened him.
"You're up early," Smyle said.
Rayden glanced over. "You too."
Smyle poured himself tea, fingers stiff from the cold. "Cold morning."
"Yes."
That was all.
They stood there together, wrapped in separate silences.
Rayden checked his watch.
"I have meetings."
Smyle nodded. "Figures."
Rayden hesitated—just barely.
"You don't have to attend everything with me," he said.
Smyle looked at him then.
"I know."
A pause.
"You must," Rayden added.
Smyle smiled faintly. "Public expectations."
Rayden didn't correct him.
When Rayden left, the door closed with a soft click.
Not a goodbye.
Just an ending.
Smyle stood alone in the quiet kitchen, cup warming his hands.
That night, the world had believed they were inseparable.
This morning—
The cold told the truth.