The dress was too expensive.
Ana could feel it clinging to her like obligation—silk, slit up the thigh, blood-red. A color she'd never worn before. A color that now matched exactly how she felt inside.
Like war.
The elevator dinged.
Christian stood waiting in a black suit, all sharp lines and unreadable calm. His eyes moved over her for exactly one second. No words. No compliments. Just a nod.
"You're late," he said.
She didn't flinch. "You're predictable."
"Try not to bite the reporters."
"Only if they bite first."
The car ride to the gala was silent.
Outside the luxury venue, paparazzi were already stacked five deep behind velvet ropes. Lights flashed like lightning. Shouts echoed. "Christian!" "Over here!" "Is that the wife?" "Smile, sweetheart!"
Ana's chest tightened.
She felt his hand brush hers lightly—not in affection, but choreography. Practice. Stage presence.
"Let them think it's real," Christian murmured under his breath.
She looked at him. His face was stone.
"You're good at pretending," she whispered back. "Almost makes me believe you've done this before."
He didn't respond. Just stepped out first.
Flashes exploded.
Christian turned, offering his hand.
Ana hesitated for a breath—then placed hers in his.
Warm.
Too warm.
And together, they walked out into the storm.
🥂 Inside the Gala
Crystal chandeliers. People in tailored lies. Champagne glasses that cost more than Ana's rent last month.
"Play nice," Christian said under his breath as they entered.
"Define nice."
He glanced sideways. "Smile. Nod. Laugh if someone makes a joke about you."
"How charming."
She didn't know how many hands she shook. How many fake congratulations she accepted. But it wasn't until she heard a woman's voice behind her that the glass in her hand nearly shattered.
"She's not his type."
Ana froze.
"Poor thing. Do you think she even knows why he really married her?"
Christian's grip on her waist subtly tightened.
Ana smiled without turning around.
Game on.
She leaned in closer to him, speaking only loud enough for the women to hear.
"Honey," she purred, "do you think they'll still talk when I sit in your lap?"
Christian blinked. He choked slightly on his drink.
And for a split second, she saw it—
A crack.
A real, human smile—crooked and surprised—breaking through that perfect mask.
But just as quickly, it vanished.
"Careful, Ana," he said quietly. "If you play with fire—"
She sipped her champagne, eyes unblinking.
"You'll burn?"
"No," he said. "You will."
But the warning in his voice didn't scare her.
Because in that moment—with all of New York's elite watching, with her heart hammering under a dress she didn't pick, and her name suddenly dragged into boardroom gossip—Ana realized something:
She wasn't here to survive.
She was here to win.
She turned toward the group of socialites, flashing them a grin so sweet it could've been sugared.
"Thank you for the warm welcome," she said smoothly. "And yes, Christian's type is apparently smart, sarcastic, and legally binding. Isn't that right, darling?"
Christian blinked.
A low chuckle escaped his lips.
It was the first sound that felt real all night.
Before he could reply, the emcee's voice rang out over the mic.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our sponsor for tonight's gala… Mr. and Mrs. Christian Blake."
Ana's breath caught.
She felt him take her hand—firm, practiced.
They walked to the stage together, hand in hand, cameras flashing like a thousand tiny lies.
To everyone watching, they were perfect.
But behind their masks?
One was playing for power.
The other for survival.
And neither had any idea…
Which one would fall first.
The applause faded behind them like the static of a dream she didn't want to remember.
The ride back to the penthouse was silent.
Christian didn't speak.
Neither did she.
The hand that had gripped hers on stage was now tucked back into his coat pocket—like none of it ever happened.
Ana watched the city blur past through tinted glass.
So many lights. So many people.
And yet somehow, she felt more alone than ever.
🖤 Penthouse. Midnight.
The dress was on the floor.
Her makeup smudged.
The fake smiles wiped clean.
Ana sat on the windowsill, a mug of untouched tea by her side, and her leather journal balanced on her knees.
Her fingers hesitated before touching the pen.
But then… the words spilled like oxygen.
📓 Ana's Journal Entry #2
I wore a red dress tonight.
I didn't choose it. It was picked by a stylist I never met, delivered by an assistant I didn't ask for, and zipped up by a stranger who called me "ma'am" like I earned the title.
But when I saw myself in the mirror…
I looked like her.
The version of me they want.
Mrs. Christian Blake.
And for a few hours, I played her.
I smiled. I nodded. I clung to his arm like he was mine. I laughed at jokes that weren't funny and pretended I didn't hear the whispers behind my back.
"She's not his type."
"Do you think she knows?"
I heard them. Every word.
But I didn't flinch.
Because that's what they want.
A crack in the mask.
I gave them a show instead.
I leaned in. I looked him in the eye. I flirted like a woman who chose this life.
And for a second—just one second—I thought I saw something real in his eyes too.
Regret?
Amusement?
Attraction?
It doesn't matter. I won't read into it. I won't fall into that trap.
Because I'm not his wife.
I'm his contract.
And when this is over, I'll take off this dress, this title, and every piece of borrowed identity they've wrapped me in.
I may be playing a role…
But I still know who I am.
Ana closed the journal slowly.
Her name was printed in bold across magazine covers now.
But here… in these pages…
It still belonged to her.
To be continued...