Anya spent an hour in front of her closet, staring at the row of impeccably tailored, conservative suits. She couldn't wear any of them. Leo would expect a performance, and that meant looking the part of the smitten fiancée.
She settled on a midnight blue silk dress that skimmed her figure, elegant but undeniably feminine. The diamond sparkled on her finger, heavy and undeniable. Leo's car, a sleek black sedan, arrived precisely at 7 PM.
He stood by the door, framed by the porch light, in a perfectly fitted tuxedo. He looked impossibly handsome, dangerous. For a moment, she was just Anya, the girl who used to gasp at the sight of him. Then she remembered the contract.
"You look… ravishing, Anya," he said, his eyes sweeping over her, a possessive glint in their depths. He held out his arm. "Ready for our debut?"
The "Charity Gala for the Arts" was a glittering affair, packed with the city's elite, including several members of the city council Leo needed to impress. As soon as they stepped onto the red carpet, the cameras flashed. Leo immediately pulled her close, his hand resting on the small of her back, exactly as he had done in the garage.
"Smile," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "Look at me like I'm the only man in the room."
Anya forced a dazzling smile, turning her head to gaze up at him. She channeled her resentment, her anger, her every raw emotion, and twisted it into an approximation of fierce devotion. The cameras ate it up.
Inside, the room was a blur of faces. Leo introduced her as "my fiancée, Anya," his hand never leaving her back, his thumb occasionally stroking her bare skin above the dress line. He was a master performer, guiding her through conversations, whispering compliments in her ear that sounded intimate but were purely for show.
"You're doing well," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple as they swayed to a slow song. "They're eating it up. Especially Councilor Davies. She thinks you're positively smitten."
Anya felt a flicker of defiance. "Then my acting is better than yours. I haven't forgotten a single line of our history."
He chuckled, a low, husky sound. "Neither have I. But some things don't need a script, do they?" His hand moved lower on her back, dipping just slightly, sending a jolt through her.
Across the room, Anya noticed a woman watching them. Tall, blonde, impeccably dressed—Seraphina Dubois, a notorious socialite and, according to the tabloids, one of Leo's recent "flings." Seraphina's eyes narrowed as she watched Leo's possessive display.
Anya felt a strange, unwelcome pang of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy. It infuriated her. She was merely performing.
Later, as Leo was deep in conversation with a councilman, Seraphina approached Anya.
"Darling," Seraphina purred, her smile saccharine sweet. "Leo never mentioned he was engaged. Such a surprise. So sudden."
"When you know, you know," Anya replied, forcing a confident smile, her fingers brushing the diamond on her ring finger. "Some things are just meant to be."
Seraphina's eyes flickered to the ring, then back to Anya's face, a hint of suspicion in their depths. "Indeed. Well, congratulations. He certainly seems… happy." Her gaze lingered on Leo for a moment too long before she walked away, leaving Anya feeling exposed and slightly unnerved.
The encounter served as a sharp reminder: this was a public performance, and every action, every gesture, was being scrutinized.
The drive home was quiet, save for the hum of the engine. Anya stared out the window, exhausted, the adrenaline of the performance draining away.
"You handled Seraphina well," Leo said, breaking the silence. "She's tenacious."
"It's part of the job," Anya replied, her voice flat. "Playing the devoted fiancée requires fending off your ex-flings."
Leo chuckled. "You made her believe it. You even almost made me believe it."
Anya turned to him, her anger flaring. "Don't even joke about that. This is a contract, Leo. A performance. Nothing more."
"Is it?" he challenged, his voice quiet, dangerous. "You felt nothing tonight? When I held you? When you saw her looking at us? You felt nothing but professional obligation?"
He pulled the car into her driveway, but didn't turn off the engine. The silence was thick with unspoken words.
"I felt… the weight of the performance," Anya admitted, struggling for control. "The pressure to be convincing. Nothing more."
He leaned over, not to kiss her, but to retrieve something from the back seat—a single, perfect long-stemmed red rose, wrapped in delicate tissue paper.
"Here," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle as he offered it to her. "A prop for a perfect night, my perfect fiancée."
Anya took the rose, its petals cool and soft against her fingertips. She looked at the blood-red bloom, then at Leo, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. Was it another calculated move? Or something more? The line between performance and reality had never felt so thin.
"Goodnight, Anya," he said, his voice a low caress. "Sleep well. We have a busy week ahead."
He waited until she was safely inside, the rose still clutched in her hand, before driving away. Anya stood in her silent living room, staring at the rose, the scent of expensive perfume and Leo's lingering touch still on her skin. She had almost convinced herself it was just an act. But the rose, a real, tangible symbol of affection, felt like a dangerous crack in her carefully constructed facade.