Chapter 5: The Joke That Stopped Being Funny
The rumor started as a joke.
It always does.
I heard it first in the hallway, whispered just loudly enough to reach my ears, dressed up in laughter that felt sharp instead of light.
"She married him for money."
I kept walking.
"She's basically living a drama series."
I didn't turn around.
"Do you think he even knows her real name?"
That one made my steps falter.
By lunchtime, the joke had evolved. By the end of the day, it had teeth.
Lucien noticed the change before I said anything. He always did. It was the way I pushed my food around my plate without eating, the way my laughter came half a second too late.
"Something happened," he said that evening, setting his phone aside.
"Nothing," I replied automatically.
He didn't argue. He just waited, patient in a way that made lying feel childish.
I exhaled. "People are talking."
"They always do."
"Not like this," I said, my voice tight. "They think I'm some kind of… investment."
Lucien's expression darkened. "Who said that?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
That was the problem. It mattered to him. Too much. And the warmth that sparked in my chest because of that only made everything messier.
"I can handle it," I insisted.
Lucien leaned back, studying me. "You shouldn't have to."
The next day, he came to school with me.
Not to pick me up. To walk me inside.
The hallway went silent.
Lucien Blackwood, calm and composed, his hand resting lightly on my lower back like it belonged there, like it had every right to be there. Heads turned. Whispers died.
"This is unnecessary," I muttered through clenched teeth.
"This is strategic," he replied quietly. "Different."
"You're making it worse."
"I'm making it clear."
Clear hurt.
By the end of the week, the joke reached its peak.
A photo.
Someone had taken a picture of us laughing in a café weeks ago, before things got complicated, before pretending started to feel like lying. It was harmless. Intimate, maybe. Enough to set the internet on fire.
Teen Bride Bags Billionaire.
I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until my chest hurt.
Lucien knocked once. Then again. Then softly, "Arielle. Open the door."
"I can't," I whispered.
The door opened anyway. He had a spare key. Of course he did.
He crossed the space in two steps and stopped, unsure, like he was afraid touching me might make me shatter.
"They don't know you," he said. "They don't get to define you."
I laughed weakly. "They already did."
His hands clenched at his sides. "I'll fix this."
"No," I said quickly. "Don't. Please. I don't want you buying silence or threatening people."
His eyes flashed. "I won't buy it."
"Then let it go," I begged.
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay."
That night, we sat on opposite ends of the couch, the distance between us louder than any argument.
"Do you ever think," I said quietly, "that this was a mistake?"
Lucien didn't answer right away.
"Yes," he said finally. "Every time I see you hurting."
I swallowed. "Then why don't we stop?"
"Because," he replied, voice low, "I don't regret choosing you."
The words wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
The joke stopped being funny when I realized something terrifying.
I didn't want this to end.
And wanting that meant I was already losing.