I learned the rules before the sun rose. Martha woke me before dawn, drawing the curtains back just enough to let pale light spill into the room. "Mr. Thompson expects you ready by six," she said quietly. "For what?" I asked, my voice rough from lack of sleep. She hesitated, "An appearance." That was all she said. I sat up slowly, my body heavy with exhaustion. Lucas' side of the bed was already empty, the sheets perfectly smoothed, as though he'd never been there at all. So much for imagining things. The dress waiting for me was nothing like the simple clothes from yesterday.
It was elegant and severe. Black silk that clung to my body in a way that made me uncomfortable. The neckline was modest, but the cut was deliberate, designed to be noticed without appearing vulgar. This wasn't clothing. It was armor. As Martha helped fasten the last button, she met my eyes in the mirror. "Do not let them see fear in your eyes," she said softly.
"Who?" I asked while looking at her. She didn't answer. Lucas was already downstairs. He stood near the entrance hall, reading something on his phone, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that made him look every bit the man the world feared. *You're late," he said without looking up. ,"I came as soon as..." "Excuses waste time," he cut in.
He finally raised his eyes. His gaze paused just for a fraction of a second. Then he turned away. "We're meeting the press," he said. "Walk beside me. Smile when addressed. Speak only if necessary." My chest tightened. "Press?" "Yes," he replied calmly. "They've been curious since the marriage announcement."
Marriage announcement?
I hadn't seen it. Hadn't been asked about it. Hadn't even known it existed.
The realization made my stomach twist. The drive was silent. Outside the building, cameras were already waiting. Flashes erupted the moment Lucas stepped out of the car.
"Mr. Thompson!"
"When did you marry?"
"Who is your wife?"
Lucas took my hand. The gesture was firm and possessive, not comforting.
He guided me forward, placing me at his side like an accessory meant to complete the image.
"This is my wife," he said evenly.
A dozen cameras turned toward me.
I froze for half a heartbeat, then remembered Marta's warning.
I smiled and questions flew from every direction.
"Is this a love match?"
"How long have you known each other?"
"Mrs. Thompson, how does it feel to marry into such power?"
Lucas answered most of them himself.
"This is a private matter."
"We value discretion."
"My wife prefers to stay out of the spotlight."
The irony burned.
A reporter leaned closer to me. "Is that true, Mrs. Thompson?"
Lucas' grip tightened around my fingers.
I felt it clearly then, my answer didn't matter.
"Yes," I said softly. "I do."
The cameras flashed harder. Lucas' jaw flexed. Only then did I realize what this was.
A warning, not to the press but to me.
The next event blurred into another; meetings, handshakes, polite smiles that made my cheeks ache. I stood beside Lucas as people praised him, admired him, feared him and ignored me except for the looks.
The assessing glances. The whispers. She doesn't look like his type.
She's so quiet.
Temporary, surely.
At one point, a woman approached us; beautiful, confident, dressed in white.
"Lucas," she said warmly. "You didn't tell me you'd married."
Her eyes moved to me slowly. I recognized her immediately.
She belonged here. "I didn't think it was necessary," Lucas replied. The woman smiled, sharp and knowing. "I see." She looked at me again, "Enjoying married life?"
Before I could answer, Lucas spoke.
"My wife is still adjusting."
The dismissal was gentle.
The message was not.
By the time we returned to the estate, my feet ached and my head throbbed.
Lucas removed his jacket as he walked.
"You did well," he said suddenly.
I blinked. "I did?"
"You didn't say anything unnecessary," he continued. "You didn't embarrass me."
That was praise, apparently.
I swallowed. "That's all I'm trying to do."
He stopped walking and turned to face me. For the first time that day, we stood alone.
"You should understand something," he said quietly. "The world you stepped into today will not forgive mistakes. They will watch you. They will judge you. And if you give them a reason..." "I'll be destroyed," I finished softly. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Yes," he said. "And I won't protect you if you don't deserve it."
The words settled deep inside me. "I understand," I said. He studied me for a moment longer than necessary. Then, he walked away.
That night, alone in my room, I stood before the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. She looked calm, composed, and empty.
And somewhere, deep beneath the fear and exhaustion, something dangerous stirred.
Not love.
Not hope.
But resolve.
If the world was watching…
Then I would learn how to survive it.
That night, sleep did not come easily. The estate was too quiet, the kind of silence that made every thought echo louder than it should. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day again and again.
The cameras, the questions.
Lucas' hand on mine, firm, unyielding, and impersonal. I turned onto my side, clutching the pillow to my chest. He had warned me.
"The world will watch you". And now I understood what he meant. It wasn't curiosity in their eyes. It was expectation. They were waiting for me to fail, to trip, to say the wrong thing, to prove I didn't belong beside him. I squeezed my eyes shut. I won't give them that satisfaction.
A soft knock came at the door and my heart skipped. "Yes?" I called quietly. The door opened just enough for Martha to step inside. "You should rest," she said. "Tomorrow will not be easier."
Her honesty startled a small, bitter laugh out of me. "Does it ever get easier?" I asked.
Martha looked at me for a long moment, her gaze steady. "No," she said simply. "But you learn how to endure." She placed a glass of water on the bedside table and left without another word.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of voices downstairs; Raised voices
I sat up, my pulse racing. Lucas' voice was unmistakable, low, sharp, and controlled.
Another voice answered him, an Older Male
Curiosity battled with fear. Against my better judgment, I slipped out of bed and moved quietly toward the door, pressing my ear against the cool wood. "…not what we agreed on," the other man was saying. "You agreed to the marriage," Lucas replied. "Nothing else." "There are expectations," the man insisted. "The board is uneasy."
Lucas laughed softly. "They'll survive." Silence followed.
Then the other man spoke again, more cautiously. "She's… not what people imagined." My breath caught.
Lucas didn't respond immediately. When he did, his voice was colder than I'd ever heard it. "My wife is not a topic for discussion." Footsteps approached. I barely made it back to bed before the door to the hallway opened. A few minutes later, Martha entered as if nothing had happened.
"Breakfast is ready," she said.
I nodded, my hands shaking beneath the covers.
Not a topic for discussion.
I didn't know why those words stayed with me.
At breakfast, Lucas acted as though nothing was wrong. He read through his tablet while I ate in silence, careful not to make a sound. The tension from earlier lingered in the air, thick and unspoken. "You'll attend another function this evening," he said suddenly.
I looked up. "Huu....another?"
"Yes," he replied. "This one is smaller. More… intimate."
The word made my stomach tighten. "What kind of function?" I asked. His gaze lifted slowly. "The kind where mistakes are remembered."
My appetite vanished immediately.
That evening, the guests arrived at the estate itself; Powerful and Important people. They filled the halls with laughter and low conversation, champagne glasses clinking, eyes roaming.
Lucas introduced me repeatedly.
"This is my wife." Nothing more, no affection, no warmth.
Just ownership.
A woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper smile leaned toward me at one point. "You're very quiet," she observed.
"I prefer listening," I replied. She laughed softly. "Smart. This family devours weakness." Her gaze flicked toward Lucien, who stood across the room speaking to a group of men. "Tell me," she said, lowering her voice, "does he still look at you the way he used to look at her?" My heart slammed painfully against my ribs. "Who?" I asked myself. "I don't know what you mean," I said. She smiled. "Of course you don't."
And just like that, she walked away. I stood there, frozen, her words echoing mercilessly in my head. The way he used to look at her.
I looked across the room at Lucas.
He wasn't looking at me.
But when his gaze finally lifted and met mine, something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
It was not softness, not regret but something far more dangerous.
Later that night, after the guests had left, the house felt emptier than ever. Lucien stopped me near the staircase. "You held yourself together," he said. It sounded almost like approval. "Is that all that matters?" I asked quietly.
His eyes darkened. "It's all that matters here," he said. I nodded slowly. As I climbed the stairs, I realized something terrifying. I was no longer just afraid of him.
I was beginning to understand him.
And that understanding; quiet, unwilling, and incomplete; felt far more dangerous than fear ever had.