Chapter 3: The Wife He Didn't Plan For
The morning after the wedding felt nothing like the start of a fairytale.
Ella woke up in the guest suite of the penthouse, her body tangled in silk sheets, her mind tangled in thoughts. The diamond ring on her finger sparkled mockingly in the morning light — cold, heavy, and far too real.
This wasn't a marriage.
It was a performance.
And the curtain had just gone up.
---
She found the kitchen by accident. It was modern and spotless, like a showroom no one had ever cooked in. But Ava — Xavier's assistant — was already there, seated at the breakfast bar with a laptop in one hand and a coffee in the other.
"You're up," Ava said with a quick glance.
"Barely." Ella walked in slowly. "Is he here?"
Ava smirked. "He left for the office an hour ago. Board meeting. Crisis mode. Your face is all over the media."
Ella blinked. "What?"
Ava turned the laptop so Ella could see.
"Billionaire Ties the Knot in Secret Ceremony — Who Is Ella Hayes?"
Her name was in bold. Her picture — grainy but unmistakably her — was plastered on half a dozen celebrity gossip blogs. Comments flooded every post. Some questioned her motives. Others accused her of gold-digging. One even claimed she was a secret child of an oil tycoon.
"Relax," Ava said. "They'll love you in a week. Or they'll hate you. Either way, you'll be famous."
Ella sighed and grabbed a banana from the counter. "This isn't exactly the low-key life I imagined when I said yes."
"Welcome to billionaire reality," Ava said, biting her croissant. "Smile for the cameras."
---
Xavier returned late that night, his jacket slung over his shoulder, his tie undone, exhaustion darkening his features.
Ella was on the couch in yoga pants, scrolling through news articles on her phone, a half-finished glass of wine on the table beside her.
"You could've warned me," she said as he walked in.
He dropped his keys in a tray by the door. "About what?"
She raised an eyebrow. "The media. The attention. The rumors."
He poured himself a drink and sat across from her. "I thought you'd expect it. You married me, not a mechanic."
"I married you because I didn't have a choice."
He looked up at her sharply. "You had a choice. You signed."
"And you made damn sure I knew what I was signing away."
The silence between them stretched like a tightrope.
Finally, Xavier leaned back. "Would you prefer I cancel the press? Hide you in the country until the world forgets?"
Ella stood, pacing slowly. "No. I'd prefer you act like we're in this together."
That made him pause.
"Together," he repeated.
"Yes. You and me. Married. Even if it's fake."
His eyes traced her face — not with mockery, but something deeper. Something unsettling.
"You want to play the role?" he asked.
Her chin lifted. "I want to own it."
A long silence passed before he rose from the couch.
"In that case, get dressed," he said. "You're coming to a gala with me tomorrow night."
"A gala?"
He gave her a slow, assessing look. "Time to show them who Mrs. King really is."
---
The next evening, Ella stood in front of a floor-length mirror in a gown she could never have afforded on her own — a deep emerald dress with an open back and a slit up to her thigh.
She barely recognized the woman staring back at her.
Confident. Sharp. Dangerous.
And next to her, Xavier stood in black.
Tailored tuxedo.
Cold expression.
Magnetic as sin.
"You clean up well," she murmured.
"So do you," he replied, but something in his tone was unreadable.
When they stepped out of the car, cameras flashed like fireworks. Journalists screamed her name. Paparazzi leaned over barricades. Ella gripped Xavier's arm tightly — and he didn't pull away.
Instead, he leaned in and whispered, "They're watching. Smile."
She did.
And for the first time in her life, her smile wasn't fake — it was sharp.
Calculated.
Because if she had to live in his world… she was going to learn how to play it.
---
The ballroom smelled of old money and expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers. White marble. Whispered gossip behind glittering champagne flutes.
Xavier introduced her as his wife.
Not his fiancée.
Not his business arrangement.
His wife.
Ella caught eyes turning toward her like she was something dangerous in silk.
She played the role well — she laughed, she touched Xavier's arm when she needed to, and she drank just enough champagne to keep her edges sharp.
Then came the woman in red.
Tall. Ice blonde. With cheekbones that could cut glass.
Claire.
"Xavier," she said, smiling. "It's been too long."
Ella knew instantly who she was.
The ex.
The one he hadn't mentioned until it was too late.
Claire looked her up and down. "So you're the new Mrs. King."
"I am," Ella said with a smile just as false.
Claire's eyes flicked to Xavier. "You always had a type."
And just like that, Ella's stomach turned.
She smiled wider. "And you must be the lesson he learned not to repeat."
Claire's expression slipped.
Xavier stepped in quickly. "Ladies—"
But Ella was already walking away.
Not because she was angry.
But because she had won that round — and she wanted Claire to sit with it.
---
Later, in the car, Xavier said nothing.
Ella stared out the window until she couldn't anymore.
"You could've told me she'd be there," she said.
"I didn't know."
"She called me your type."
He glanced at her. "She doesn't know me anymore."
"Do I?"
He didn't answer.
And that was all the answer she needed.
---
But that night, after they returned home and Ella retreated to her room, she found a note slipped beneath the door.
"You were the only real thing in that room. — X."
Her heart thudded.
And she wasn't sure if she hated him more… or if she was already falling