The car rolled to a stop, and Clara felt her heart pounding hard against her ribs.
Through the darkened window, light bursts flashed on and off. cameras. report. A red carpet too long.
Her fingers clenched increasingly tightly on the little clutch that was in her lap.
"Remember," Dylan said coolly, straightening his cuffs, "you're the happy one."
Clara swallowed. "Is that your advice?"
"You should take that role."
Before she could say anything, the car door opened.
Noise rushed in instantly.
"Mr. Monroe!"
"Right this way!"
"When did you get married?"
Dylan was the first to emerge, reaching his full height, serene as ever. He held out his hand without glancing at her.
Clara hesitated for half a heartbeat.
Then she took it.
The cameras doubled as soon as she left.
"Who is she?"
"Is that the wife?"
"She's...obstinate." (That's the word I'd use if you gave me 10 tries to describe her in one word)
The whispers were stronger then the light.
Dylan's hand traveled to her waist, palm firm and possessive. The movement was intentional. Controlled.
"Smile," he whispered, his lips barely moving.
Clara forced her lips to curl upwards, even as the gut wrenching pain made her feel like vomiting.
They walked.
Every step seemed choreographed, yet she was inventing each breath.
A reporter pushed forward. "Mrs. Monroe! How did you meet your husband?
Clara froze.
Dylan didn't answer for her.
This one was hers.
She glanced at the microphone then at Dylan above her. His face was impassive.
"We got introduced when I wasn ̓t looking for anything," she said slowly. "Nor was he."
The crowd murmured.
"And yet," she went on, to her own surprise at how steady her voice was, "some things don't have to ask your permission before they change your life."
Dylan's fingers relaxed Teensy bit.
Approval.
Before the next question could come, they were led inside.
The ballroom was enormous. Gold chandeliers. Crystal glasses. Wealth oozed from each and every surface.
Clara immediately felt out of place.
Women in designer gowns floated past her, their laughter bright and easy. Several men in suit and tie nodded politely, their gazes resting just a little too long.
She felt like a stranger under false pretenses.
"You're doing fine," Dylan said no less quietly as they made their way across the room.
"I feel like I'm drowning," she whispered back.
He did not slow. "Then keep breathing."
A woman came up to them, smiling as if she had done this a thousand times.
"Dylan Monroe," she said warmly. "It's too long."
Dylan nodded. "Eleanor."
Her eyes immediately moved to Clara.
"And this must be the wife."
Clara held out her hand. "Clara Monroe." Monroe was her surname.
The woman's smile wavered for a split second, but then it returned. "Lovely."
It wasn't. They moved on, but it didn't stop.
Every introduction felt exactly the same.
Curiosity.
Judgment.
Disbelief.
"She's younger than what I thought."
"She isn't his usual type."
"Are we sure this is real?"
The words were not whispered quietly enough.
Clara could feel them all.
At one point, Dylan stepped aside to talk to an investor.
'Stay here,' he said.
She nodded, her back to a champagne table, doing her best not to look like she was waiting.
That's when Vanessa appeared.
"You look overwhelmed," Vanessa observed with a light tone.
Clara stiffened. "I'm fine."
Vanessa smiled, slow and knowing. "You're brave. I'll give you that."
Was it "for attending an event with my husband?" asked Clara.
"No," Vanessa said. "In the war to live a life that wasn't meant for you."
Clara met her gaze. "You don't know me."
Vanessa leaned closer. "I know Dylan."
That was worse.
"'He doesn't hold onto things that burden him,' Vanessa said softly. 'And you, Clara, are very complicated.'"
Clara's chest tightened. "You sound bitter."
Vanessa laughed. "I sound honest," she said.
Before Clara could react, a flash detonated inches from her face.
Someone had fallen.
Champagne poured.
On to Clara's dress.
They were all silent in the room.
"I'm so sorry!" a woman gasped, though her eyes briefly glanced towards Vanessa.
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she looked down at the stain which was spreading and Clara gaped.
Every eye in the room was on her.
She felt small.
Exposed.
The slap was much worse than the slap.
"I —"
"Now," he repeated, sharper this time.
Clara nodded stiffly and walked away, her feet clacking too loud on the marble floor.
Once inside the toilet, she locked the door, covered her mouth with her hand.
Don't cry.
No.
But she cried anyway.
She rubbed at the stain in vain; her reflection in the window was that of a stranger. Too polished. Too fragile.
She was born too small to be able to live in this world.
There was a knock at the door.
"Clara."
Dylan.
She cracked it open.
He looked irritated. Restrained. Not worried.
"You don't behave that way."
"Like what?" she snapped. "Like a human being?"
"This is all happening in public here."
"I was humiliated."
"It's under control."
She bitterly laughed. "By sending me away?"
He sighed. "You're taking this personally."
"They don't see a wife. They see a mistake," she said, her voice shaking. "They don't see a wife. They see a mistake."
"That's irrelevant."
"No," Clara said, raising her chin. "What's irrelevant is how I feel. That's the contract, right?"
Something dark crossed his eyes.
"You agreed to this."
"Yes," she replied. "But you didn't say I'd disappear the moment things got uncomfortable."
Silence stretched between them.
Dylan finally spoke. "Fix yourself. We're leaving soon."
He turned to go.
Clara's chest ached.
"Dylan," she said quietly.
He paused.
"Do you ever feel anything?" she asked.
He didn't turn around.
"That's not in the deal."
And then he was gone.
The silence in the car was deafening.
Clara gazed out the window, the city lights melting.
"You did a good job with the press," Dylan said finally.
She didn't respond.
"I said—"
"I heard you," she said blasé. "Congratulations."
He furrowed his brow a little. "You're upset."
"I'm embarrassed."
"You shouldn't be."
"That's easy for you to say. You weren't the one spilled on and discarded."
His jaw tightened. "
"Everything I do is calculated," he said. "You knew that."
"Yes," Clara whispered. "I just didn't realize that included me."
The car entered the garage.
They stepped out.
Before the elevator doors closed, Clara spoke again.
"Next time," she said softly, "choose me. Just once."
The doors slid shut.
Dylan said nothing.
But his reflection in the mirrored wall looked… unsettled. is this positive?