The hall was glowing with soft lights and expensive smiles.
I walked beside Zayn, my hand resting lightly on his arm as cameras flashed around us. The dress he had chosen for me was simple, just like he said—but the way his fingers tightened around mine told a different story.
This wasn't just an appearance.
It was a statement.
"Stay close," he murmured without looking at me.
I did.
People whispered as we passed. Some smiled politely, others stared with open curiosity. I felt like an exhibit—Zayn's wife, the woman no one knew enough about.
A woman approached us, her smile sharp and confident. "Zayn," she said warmly, her eyes sliding over me before settling back on him. "It's been a while."
His grip on my hand tightened.
"Not long enough," he replied coolly.
I looked up at him, surprised. He didn't like unnecessary conversations—especially not like this.
"And you are?" she asked me, finally.
Before I could answer, Zayn spoke.
"My wife."
Two words.
Firm. Final.
No explanation. No hesitation.
Something fluttered painfully in my chest.
The woman's smile faltered for just a second before she recovered. "Lucky you," she said, then excused herself.
Zayn exhaled slowly.
"You didn't have to do that," I said quietly once she was gone.
"Yes, I did."
I stopped walking. He turned to face me, his expression unreadable.
"This world," he said, lowering his voice, "doesn't respect uncertainty. If they think you're temporary, they'll treat you that way."
"And what do you think?" I asked.
His eyes searched mine, intense and conflicted.
"I think," he said carefully, "that some things shouldn't be questioned out loud."
The music swelled around us, laughter echoing through the hall.
His thumb brushed my knuckles—accidental, or maybe not.
For the first time since this contract began, I realized something dangerous.
He wasn't just protecting the image of our marriage.
He was protecting me.And that scared me more than anything else.