The morning light came soft through the curtains, but it did nothing to calm her nerves.
She wasn't nervous about the press, the cameras, or the endless social posts. She was nervous about him.
Breakfast had been a quiet affair. Staff moved silently around them, presenting coffee, pastries, and fresh fruit. He had eaten slowly, his eyes occasionally flicking toward her—not to check on her, but to observe. To measure.
She hated that she noticed.
"Your schedule for today," he said, laying a tablet in front of her.
She glanced at it. Meetings, press calls, interviews, photoshoots. Every detail pre-approved. Every public interaction meticulously planned.
"I can handle it," she said curtly.
"I know," he replied. "But we both know appearances matter."
She clenched her jaw. "I'm not a prop."
"Neither am I," he said evenly. "And yet, here we are."
The words stung more than she expected.
She finished her breakfast and excused herself for a walk. The building was vast, but she knew she had to leave the carefully constructed bubble for a few minutes. Outside, the city greeted her with indifferent bustle, and for a second, it felt like a life she might have had if none of this had happened.
But reality didn't wait.
A man approached her as she turned a corner in the lobby—a young, confident reporter with a camera hanging around his neck.
"Ms. —?" he began.
She raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"We've been trying to reach you for a comment on the engagement story. Would you…?"
She cut him off. "I have nothing to say. You may leave."
He smiled faintly. "I think the public would like to hear your side. After all, people are curious about the—"
Before he could finish, a shadow fell across her.
"Excuse me," a calm, controlled voice said.
She turned.
He was there. Hands in pockets, eyes sharp, and that unreadable expression fixed on the reporter.
"This is my wife," he said smoothly.
Her pulse jumped.
The reporter blinked, taking a cautious step back. "Ah… of course. I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean what?" he asked, voice quiet but unmistakably edged.
"Nothing," the man said quickly, sensing the subtle danger. He backed away, muttering apologies before retreating.
She exhaled slowly, cheeks burning.
"You didn't need to do that," she whispered.
"I did," he replied simply. "You don't get interrupted in my presence."
She swallowed. Heat crawled up her neck.
And then she realized—she was feeling jealous.
Of a stranger.
A stranger she had barely met.
She shook her head, trying to steady herself. Ridiculous.
Later that afternoon, she was led to a photoshoot. The stylist fussed over her hair, assistants adjusted her clothes, and the photographer gave constant instructions. He hovered near the edge, not touching, not directing, just there—present. Watching. Waiting.
She caught his eyes once during a break. He raised an eyebrow, almost teasing, and the faintest smirk played on his lips.
Her stomach twisted.
She wasn't supposed to feel anything for him—not yet.
And yet, every little glance, every subtle movement felt like a ripple through her chest.
The worst part came during the final shot. Another model—a striking woman with a practiced smile—approached him, holding a folder.
He took it from her politely, nodding.
Her chest tightened. Her hands fisted around the edge of her stool.
"She's just an assistant," he said, noticing her tension.
"I know," she said quickly.
"No," he replied, voice low, eyes darkening. "You don't know. You're not used to sharing space like this."
The words were like fire licking her skin. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. Uneasy.
"You don't trust me," he added softly.
"I shouldn't," she whispered, barely audible.
"You do," he said.
She looked away.
The moment stretched. Neither moved, neither spoke again. And in the silence, she realized the truth: this wasn't a game anymore. Every glance, every small gesture, every quiet command of his presence was shaping her—and she couldn't ignore it.
By the time the shoot ended, the sun was setting. She walked alone to her room, pulling her coat tightly around herself, trying to dismiss the swirl of emotions.
Her phone vibrated.
Him: Dinner tonight. Same rules. Public only.
She stared at the screen, a bitter smile touching her lips.
Public only.
She wanted to say no, wanted to fight, wanted to run.
But deep down, she knew she wouldn't.
Because the first spark of something she had sworn she wouldn't feel had already been lit and it was burning quietly, dangerously, beneath the surface.