"Everyone saw the diamonds, but no one saw the bruises beneath her smile."
The morning sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Davis house like liquid gold, turning every inch of marble and silk into something out of a magazine spread. Staff bustled down the halls with silver trays and champagne glasses, florists quickly added white lilies to a floral arch, and photographers adjusted their tripods by the front garden fountain.
Sophia stood motionless before the mirror in the dressing room, her breath stopped somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Her fingers trembled as she fastened the platinum chain around her neck, the family diamond sitting like ice above her collarbone.
She wasn't a girl anymore.
She was a story waiting to happen.
"Breathe," whispered the stylist as she added a final spray of setting mist to Sophia's curls. "You look like a dream."
But dreams didn't feel like this.
Sophia blinked at her reflection—white lace dress, perfect makeup, soft eyes. A perfect lie wrapped in beauty.
There was a knock, then the door creaked open. Mason stepped inside without waiting.
She turned, heart stuttering, even though she didn't want it to.
He looked sharp in a charcoal suit and black tie, every inch the rich heir. His silver cufflinks gleamed, his hair styled with easy arrogance. But his expression—cold, unreadable—hadn't eased since last night.
His eyes dropped to the necklace.
"You wore it."
"You told me to," she answered quietly.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Approval? Gratitude? It disappeared before she could name it.
He offered his arm. "It's time."
Sophia paused before slipping her hand around his bicep. His body was warm beneath the cloth. Solid. A wall of silence she had no choice but to lean on.
They walked down the long hallway together, neither speaking.
Outside, the yard looked like something from a billionaire's fairytale. Press cameras flashed. Dozens of wealthy men and designer-clad women sipped mimosas beneath ivory tents. Every Davis family member was there. Every shareholder. Every elite worth knowing.
Mason led her through the crowd like a commander bringing his queen into a war zone.
"Smile," he whispered through his teeth as the first shooter raised his camera. "And hold my hand."
She followed.
Their fingers intertwined as the camera clicked, her skin warming beneath his cold grip.
Fake. It was all fake.
But somehow, his grip felt real.
"Mr. Davis!" a woman in a wide-brimmed hat called out. "Is she the one who finally tamed you?"
Laughter. Champagne glasses clinked. People stared at Sophia like she was a rare diamond—and just as breakable.
Mason's smile was practiced. Polished.
"She's more than that," he said easily, eyes not leaving Sophia. "She's my wife."
It sounded rehearsed. But it also didn't.
Sophia's stomach twisted.
Inside the tent, the speeches started. Toasts were made. Mason's mother, Diana, stood to talk.
Her voice was clear. Clipped. Cold.
"Today we welcome a new name into our legacy," she said, raising her glass. "Though we were… surprised by the speed of this engagement, I'm told it's a love match."
Mason's jaw clenched.
Sophia smiled through the sting in her throat.
Diana continued. "I expect Mrs. Davis to rise to the occasion. The press is watching. The world is watching. And we only accept perfection."
Sophia's smile didn't flinch.
But her fingers dug into her napkin beneath the tablecloth.
After the final toast, Mason leaned toward her. "Let's walk."
They slipped away from the crowd, down the winding stone path that curled toward the private garden. It was quieter there. The air smelled of roses and sea breeze. The laughing of the elite faded behind them.
Mason released her hand.
"You did well," he said.
"You keep saying that," she muttered. "Like I'm some performance piece."
"You are," he said, too frankly. "That's the point."
She stopped walking.
"Mason," she said, turning to him, "do you ever get tired of pretending?"
His brow lifted slightly. "Pretending what?"
"That you don't feel anything."
He stared at her.
Long. Hard.
Then, with a voice that was low and suddenly hoarse, he said, "Feeling gets people killed in my family."
Sophia's breath caught.
"Mason…"
He looked away. "You shouldn't care."
"I'm not trying to care. I'm just trying to survive."
His gaze returned to her, steel sharpening.
"Then stop looking at me like I'm anything more than your lifeline."
A pause.
"And stop expecting me to be your savior."
She gulped. "I don't want saving."
"Good," he said, turning. "Because I don't save anyone."
But as he walked away, his shoulders weren't as straight. His steps weren't as steady.
And Sophia, left behind in the rose-scented silence, pressed a hand to her chest.
Why did it feel like he was lying?
Not just to her.
But to himself.
Later that evening, back inside the mansion, Sophia passed by Mason's study and stopped. The door was slightly ajar. Voices echoed from within.
"She's pretty," a deep male voice said—Lucas's voice.
Sophia's blood ran cold.
"She always was," Mason responded flatly.
"And now she's yours?"
"She was never yours," Mason snapped. "You abandoned her."
"I didn't know about the baby."
"You still left," Mason growled.
A beat of silence.
Then Lucas asked, voice softer, "Do you love her?"
Sophia froze.
Her heart thundered so loud she could barely hear the answer.
But Mason didn't reply.
The silence was his answer.
She backed away, steps quiet, heart heavier than ever.
She had survived the breakfast. The shots. The cold smiles and the lies.
But now… now the real war was starting.
And she didn't know if Mason Davis was going to be her shield—
Or the one who broke her completely.