The sun was barely above the horizon when Ivy realized her life was no longer her own.
Clara, Lucian's razor-sharp assistant, stood in her bedroom doorway like a warden. "We need to get you ready. The press is already circling."
Ivy sat up, her heart sinking. "Press?"
Clara's smile was thin. "You're Mrs. Cross now. That means eyes are on you—everywhere, all the time. Today, you'll accompany Mr. Cross to a board luncheon. Reporters will be waiting."
A luncheon. Reporters. Cameras. Judging stares.
Her stomach knotted.
---
Within hours, she was transformed. The simple girl from the alley was gone. In her place stood a woman in a cream-colored sheath dress that clung to her frame, her hair styled in glossy waves. Diamonds glittered at her ears—too heavy, too foreign.
She barely recognized herself in the mirror.
"Remember," Clara said crisply, adjusting the hem of Ivy's dress. "Smile when you must, but don't talk unless prompted. And whatever happens, don't contradict Mr. Cross in public. His reputation comes first."
The implication was clear: Ivy's voice didn't matter.
She bit down hard on the retort that rose in her throat. Survival. That's what mattered.
---
By the time she descended to the waiting car, Ivy could already hear them. The shouting. The flashing bulbs.
The car door opened, and Lucian stood waiting, immaculate in his tailored suit, his presence cutting through the chaos like a blade. Without a word, he extended his hand.
She hesitated for half a beat—then placed her trembling fingers in his. His grip was firm, anchoring, commanding.
The instant she stepped out, the world exploded.
"Mrs. Cross! Look this way!"
"Who are you? Where did he find you?"
"Rumors say you're not from high society—is that true?"
Cameras assaulted her, questions stung like wasps, but Lucian's hand never wavered. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her close in a gesture that looked intimate but felt like possession.
"Eyes forward," he murmured, his voice a calm command. "Ignore them. They don't matter."
But to Ivy, they did. Every flash felt like judgment, every voice like condemnation.
---
The luncheon was worse.
The boardroom was filled with polished men and women—directors, investors, powerful people who could crush her with a glance. The moment Ivy walked in at Lucian's side, conversations faltered.
"Gentlemen. Ladies." Lucian's voice was smooth, commanding attention. "This is my wife, Ivy Cross."
He said it like a declaration. Like a challenge.
The men shook her hand politely. The women's smiles were brittle, their eyes sharp.
"Lovely to meet you," one of them drawled. "We were beginning to think Lucian would never settle down."
"Yes," another chimed in, her tone laced with venom. "Though I must say, we're all surprised. You don't… quite fit the mold."
Heat rose to Ivy's cheeks. She opened her mouth to respond, but Lucian's fingers pressed lightly at her back—a warning.
"Ivy is exactly who I wanted," he said coolly, his gaze cutting like steel. "That's all that matters."
The table fell silent. No one dared challenge him.
But Ivy's heart thudded. He was protecting her—no, not her. Protecting his choice. Protecting his control.
She was a piece of armor in his war.
---
During the meal, Ivy's nerves betrayed her. A glass tipped, spilling water across the table. Gasps rose, whispers darted.
Her face burned with humiliation.
Before she could apologize, Lucian's hand shot out, steadying hers. His voice was calm, absolute. "Accidents happen. Focus on the deal."
The matter was dismissed instantly. No one dared linger on her mistake.
But Ivy felt the heat of every stare, the sting of her own inadequacy.
When Lucian leaned closer, his breath brushed her ear. "You let them see weakness once. Don't do it again."
His words weren't cruel, but they were iron.
She swallowed hard and nodded.
---
The ride back was suffocating.
Ivy stared out the window, the city blurring past, while Lucian typed something on his phone.
Finally, she couldn't hold it in. "You treat me like… like I'm an extension of you. Like I don't even exist except to make you look good."
His eyes flicked up, sharp. "That's the role you agreed to."
Her voice cracked. "But I'm not just a role."
For the first time, his jaw tightened. Something flickered in his gaze—something raw, quickly masked.
"You think I don't know that?" His voice was low, dangerous. "That's exactly why you're here, Ivy."
Her breath hitched. The weight of his words pressed against her, heavy with meaning she didn't understand.
Before she could demand more, the car slowed. They were home.
---
As Lucian stepped out first, Ivy lingered. Her reflection in the tinted glass stared back at her—a woman caught in a cage of diamonds and contracts.
She had thought the hardest part would be signing the paper. She was wrong.
The hardest part was surviving Lucian Cross himself.
And in the shadows of the lobby, a man with a camera lowered his lens, a sly smile on his face.
Tomorrow, the world would know Ivy Cross's face.