The gown came in a silver box tied with a ribbon so black it gleamed like obsidian under the light. Lisa had stared at it for almost an hour before daring to lift the lid. Inside lay the most exquisite dress she had ever seen, an evening gown of midnight satin, delicate sequins cascading down the bodice like falling stars. It was breathtaking, and intimidating all at once.
Pinned to the fabric was a note written in sharp, precise handwriting:
Be ready by seven. Don't be late. —W.B.
Lisa swallowed hard. She wasn't used to luxury. Most of her life had been thrift stores and borrowed clothes, not gowns that probably cost more than her family's entire rent for the year. But tonight wasn't about her. It was about proving to Will Bruce's world that she belonged at his side. Even if she didn't believe it herself.
⸻
At precisely seven, a sleek black limousine pulled up outside her apartment. The driver didn't even glance at her as he opened the door, but when she slid inside, her breath caught.
Will was already waiting, sitting with one leg casually crossed over the other, dressed in a black tuxedo that seemed made for him alone. The crisp lines of his suit, the glint of his cufflinks, the sheer authority in the way he occupied the space—it was almost suffocating.
His eyes flicked over her as she entered, lingering for a beat too long on the curve of her waist, the delicate strap of her gown against her shoulder.
"You clean up well," he said finally, his tone unreadable.
Lisa's cheeks heated. "Thanks… I guess."
"Don't thank me. Just remember why you're here. You're Mrs. Bruce tonight. Every eye in that room will be on you." He leaned in slightly, his voice low and deliberate. "Don't embarrass me."
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to snap back, to remind him that she hadn't asked for this marriage, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she sat stiffly beside him, clutching her small purse like a lifeline.
⸻
The gala was a vision of wealth—chandeliers dripping crystal light, champagne flutes glittering in the hands of men and women dressed in designer gowns and tailored suits. Lisa's breath caught as they stepped inside together, Will's hand firm and commanding at the small of her back. The touch should have steadied her, but instead it sent her pulse skittering.
Every head turned. Conversations faltered. Cameras flashed. She could practically hear the whispers ripple through the crowd.
"Is that William Bruce?"
"Who's the woman with him?"
"She's stunning."
"She doesn't look like his usual type."
Lisa forced a polite smile, her nerves twisting tighter with every step. She didn't belong here. She knew it. They all knew it.
Will, however, walked as if he owned the room. And perhaps he did. He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. "Smile wider," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. "They're watching."
Her lips curved obediently, though her heart was hammering far too fast.
⸻
They made their way through introductions—politicians, socialites, business moguls. Lisa smiled, nodded, and spoke when necessary, though every word felt rehearsed, foreign on her tongue.
At one point, she excused herself to get a glass of water, her nerves begging for a moment's reprieve. But before she could take two steps, a hand closed around her wrist.
Will's.
His grip was firm, almost possessive. "Where are you going?"
"To get some water," she said, startled.
His jaw tightened. "Not alone. You don't leave my side tonight. Do you understand?"
Lisa blinked. "Are you… protecting me? Or controlling me?"
His eyes darkened. "Both."
For a second, they simply stared at each other, the tension between them so thick it was almost tangible. Then, without warning, Will tugged her closer, his hand sliding from her wrist to rest against her lower back again, guiding her firmly back into the crowd.
Her breath caught at the sudden closeness, the way his body brushed against hers, the scent of his cologne intoxicating. She hated the way it made her feel—weak, flustered, wanting.
⸻
Later in the evening, Lisa overheard two women whispering near the bar.
"Look at her. She's no one. Just another pretty face."
"She won't last. William Bruce never keeps anyone for long."
The words sliced deeper than she cared to admit. She lowered her gaze, her confidence unraveling. But before she could retreat, Will's voice cut through the noise like steel.
"She's not just anyone," he said coolly, stepping up behind her. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her firmly against his side in full view of the room. "She's my wife."
The entire bar seemed to freeze. Lisa's heart thudded painfully as she looked up at him. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but the weight of his words lingered, heavy and undeniable.
In that moment, she realized something: this wasn't just an arrangement anymore. At least, not for him. There was something else simmering beneath his icy facade. Something possessive. Something dangerous. Something that made her wonder if maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as immune to her as he wanted to believe.