The dress was black silk, smooth as water under my hands. Strapless, with a slit high enough to make me question my balance. It was nothing like the clothes I owned — too expensive, too precise, too… Alex.
I slipped it on, feeling like the fabric was swallowing the last bits of me that felt ordinary.
When I stepped out, Alex's eyes flicked over me once. No smile. No compliment. Just a single, quiet nod.
"Better," he said. "Let's go."
The car ride was short, but heavy. I kept smoothing my hands over the dress, watching the city blur past.
"Whatever happens," he said suddenly, "you smile. Even if they're insulting you. Especially if they're insulting you. You never let them see you flinch."
"Why does it feel like we're going to war?" I murmured.
His lips curved just barely. "Because we are."
The restaurant was a rooftop jewel — glass walls, gold accents, sunlight pouring in like it had been choreographed. Photographers lined the entrance, their voices sharp, their cameras snapping with rapid-fire bursts.
Alex took my hand without looking at me, the picture of casual possession.
"Alex! Over here! Is she the one?"
"Sarah, are you moving in together?"
"Alex, are the engagement rumors true?"
I didn't answer. I just smiled — that carefully practiced smile — and let him lead me through the chaos.
---
Inside, the air was cooler, calmer, but the eyes were no softer. Every table seemed to pause as we passed. Some smiled politely. Others didn't bother hiding their curiosity.
At our table, a woman in a cream suit was already waiting. She was tall, with hair pulled into a sleek bun, and a smile that didn't feel like a smile at all.
"Alex," she said, rising to kiss his cheek. Then, turning to me, "And you must be Sarah. I've read so much about you this morning."
Her tone was sweet enough to rot teeth.
"Good things, I hope," I said lightly, even though my pulse was hammering.
She tilted her head. "Depends on how you define good. The public loves a Cinderella story… but they also love to tear it apart."
Alex's hand rested on mine under the table, a warning more than comfort.
The woman leaned forward. "Tell me, Sarah, how does one go from complete anonymity to dating the most eligible man in the city? Pure luck? Or…" she let the pause stretch, "…something else?"
I smiled. "Maybe it's just that he finally met someone who doesn't care about his money."
Her eyes flicked to Alex. "And you believe that?"
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't," he said smoothly, squeezing my hand.
The tension at the table was so thick it was almost a third guest.
---
We made it through lunch with polite laughter and sharper undercurrents. I answered questions about my "hobbies," my "background," and my "plans for the future" — all of them laced with the unspoken question of whether I belonged.
By the time dessert came, my cheeks ached from smiling.
As we stood to leave, the woman in cream touched my arm. Her voice was low, for me alone.
"Careful, Sarah. Men like Alex… they only play pretend until it stops benefiting them."
When I glanced at him, he was already walking away — and for the first time, I wondered if she was right.