The red carpet didn't feel like a path to high society; it felt like a trail of fresh blood leading directly into the open mouth of a starving beast. As I stepped out of the Maybach, the world exploded into a terrifying cacophony of shouting voices, the rhythmic thud of bass from the ballroom, and the blinding, strobe-like white light of a hundred cameras. Silas didn't hesitate for a single heartbeat. He pulled me against his side, his arm locking around my waist with a possessive, crushing strength that forced me to match his long, predatory stride. He leaned down, his lips brushing against my temple in a gesture that looked like a caress to the cameras but felt like a threat to me. He whispered against my skin, his breath a cold, minty contrast to the humid night air, telling me to keep my head up and my hand on my stomach. He reminded me that every lens was a witness to our lie, and that if I blinked or wavered even for a second, the wolves of the press would tear us both apart before we reached the door.
I did exactly as I was told, my body operating on a level of survival instinct I hadn't known I possessed. I let my hand rest over the silk-covered curve of my belly, my fingers trembling so violently I had to press them into the fabric to keep them still. I felt the phantom weight of a child that didn't exist, a heavy, sinking guilt that sat in my gut like lead. The flashbulbs were so aggressive they left purple and gold streaks across my vision, turning the grand, limestone entrance of the Metropolitan Museum into a distorted, fever-dream landscape. We moved through the heavy brass doors and into the Great Hall, where the air was thick with the scent of a thousand crushed lilies and the suffocating, dusty musk of old money.
The room fell into a sudden, vacuum-like silence as we entered. It was a ripple effect, a wave of hushed voices and clinking glass that started at the towering champagne fountain and moved outward toward the sweeping grand staircase. Silas Vane, the man who lived in the shadows of his own sprawling empire, the man who had stayed hidden for five years after his public humiliation, was finally showing off the woman he had claimed in the dark. I felt a thousand eyes scanning my face, judging the cheapness of my soul beneath the expensive silk of my dress. Their gazes lingered most pointedly on the slight, engineered swell of my waistline, their collective curiosity sharp enough to draw blood. The whispers followed us like a trail of toxic smoke, snaking through the air as they wondered aloud who I was, where I had been hidden, and how a girl with no name and no pedigree had managed to capture the most ruthless man in the city.
We had reached the center of the ballroom when the crowd parted like a sea of silk and wool to reveal a woman standing alone. She was dressed in white lace so intricate it looked like a wedding gown reimagined for a funeral. Her hair was a shock of platinum blonde, styled in waves that looked as hard as frozen water, and her eyes were a shade of blue so piercingly cold they made Silas's gray gaze look like a summer afternoon. This was Julianna Rossi—the ex-fiancée, the woman who had left Silas at the altar in front of the world's elite, and the sole reason I was currently wearing a dead man's daughter's jewels and lying about the life growing inside me.
Silas didn't slow his pace. If anything, he steered me directly toward her with a terrifying focus, his grip on my waist tightening until the silver chains of my dress bit into my skin. He greeted her with a voice that was smooth, empty, and perfectly polished, introducing me as his wife. He didn't just state my name; he claimed me as his territory in front of the one person who knew exactly how hollow and frozen his heart truly was. He was using me as a shield, a living trophy to prove that he had not only survived her rejection but had thrived in a way she never could.
Julianna didn't even acknowledge Silas's presence at first. She looked at me with a clinical, soul-deep disdain. Her gaze dropped to my hand, still resting protectively over my womb, and her expression curdled into something wretched and hateful. She remarked that Silas had moved with remarkable speed for a man who had claimed to be broken-hearted just months ago. She commented on the convenient timing of our sudden marriage, her voice dripping with a poisonous irony as she calculated the months since their public split against the supposed progress of my pregnancy.
I felt Silas's chest vibrate against my shoulder as he spoke, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made the champagne in my hand tremble. He told her that some things were too precious to wait for, and that the arrival of his heir was the only thing that mattered to him now. He leaned down and kissed my cheek, a gesture so intimate and lingering that for a split second, the heat of his skin made me forget the contract in his desk. His lips were cold, but the heat of his gaze as it locked onto Julianna's was a warning. I knew my cue. I had to cement the lie or lose everything I had bargained for.
I looked Julianna directly in the eye, mirroring the coldness she offered. I told her that Silas was right, and that the doctor had told us only yesterday to expect a boy in the spring. I said the words with a soft, practiced smile, imagining the face of my brother in his hospital bed, the way his breath caught in his chest when he was scared. I used that fear to give my voice the emotional weight it needed to sound like a mother's love. I told her that we were both looking forward to a quiet life, one far removed from the scandals and the ghosts of the past.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush the lungs of everyone in the room. Julianna's face paled until she was the color of her lace dress, her carefully constructed composure shattering for a single, glorious second before she masked it with a brittle, high-pitched laugh. She turned on her heel and vanished into the crowd, her white train fluttering behind her like a flag of total surrender.
But Silas didn't let go of me. He didn't celebrate. He leaned in even closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, and told me that my performance was adequate for a beginner but that I shouldn't get comfortable. He reminded me that this lie was a debt I had to pay every single day, in every single room we entered together. He said that tonight was only the beginning of my penance, and that he expected me to play the part of the doting, pregnant wife until he decided the game was finally over. He made it clear that my body, my face, and my voice were no longer mine to control.
He led me toward the stone terrace, away from the prying eyes and the suffocating heat of the guests. The air was cooler here, overlooking the dark, silent expanse of Central Park. He finally let go of my waist, and the sudden absence of his touch made me feel unmoored, as if I were about to float off into the night sky. He told me to wait there while he spoke with his lawyers in the private lounge, reminding me with a sharp, final glance that I was never to speak to a single member of the press without his explicit permission
I stood alone in the moonlight, the silver chains of my dress digging into my spine like a harness. My stomach felt empty, a hollow, aching void that mirrored the total silence of my life. I had saved my brother's life today, but as I looked out at the glittering, uncaring city below, I realized I had become a ghost in a plum-colored shroud. I was a wife who wasn't loved, a mother who wasn't pregnant, and a woman who no longer owned the right to her own name. The lie was a gilded cage of my own making, and I could hear the heavy bolt of the door sliding into place, locking me in with the devil for the rest of my days.