The car was black sleek and tinted.
I pressed my palms lightly against the leather seat,feeling the coolness seep into my fingers,the city rushed past the windows like an indifferent river of light and sound, blurring as we moved forward.I reminded myself to breathe,though each inhalation felt measured and deliberate.Every movement, every glance,every breath would be analyzed.This was part of the contract,the rules etched into every fiber of my new life.
Ethan sat beside me,upright,unyielding,the very perfect picture of composure.His dark eyes flicked briefly toward me once,then returned to the city beyond.He didn't speak,and I didn't either.Sillence hung between us,not uncomfortable but sharp,like a blade waiting for a mistake.I reminded myself that the slightest error could ripple far beyond these walls.
The stylist's studio smelled faintly of expensive perfumes and hairspray.It was quiet,on-point and detailed.People moved around me with practiced smiles,assessing every detail,adjusting,refining,crafting an image that would be broadcasted to the world.I followed their directions,allowing brushes and combs to reshape me,powders to mask,fabrics to contour.By the time they were done,I barely recognized the reflection staring back at me,controlled,sharp,
polished perfect for someone else's eyes.
"She'll do,"one of the assistants said into her phone.
She'll do.
The words sank into me,a quiet echo that followed me back into the car.They weren't meant to insult—they were documentation and assessment. I adjusted my posture,straightened my shoulders,and reminded myself that I was performing,not living.
The venue loomed as we arrived,cameras flashed even before the car stopped,and security moved with competence.The doors opened,and the surge of noise hit me all at once—shouts,clicks,murmurs,and laughter woven into a tense soundtrack of observation.
Ethan was already there.
He didn't greet me with words or gestures. He waited,perfectly composed in his tailored suit,eyes scanning the crowd as if assessing threats rather than welcoming me.Then, slow and deliberate,he extended his arm i took it.
The cameras reacted immediately,flashes burst like controlled lightning,explosive and invasive.His grip was firm,unyielding, possessive—not affectionate,but declarative__This is mine(He surely didn't consider me a person)
Questions rained down on us. Congratulations,how did you meet,was it love at first sight?Ethan's voice answered smoothly,calm,measured,each word deliberate.I followed his lead,speaking when necessary,smiling when required,every step, every gesture,every breath felt choreographed.
Inside,the room pulsed with energy eyes were everywhere,sharp and curious.I could feel them assessing me—measuring my age,my composure,my poise__whispers trailed us as we passed.
"She's younger than I expected,"someone murmured.
"She'll learn,"another replied.
Ethan's hand tightened slightly at my waist. A warning,not gentle or soft, but unmistakable...My chest tightened,heat rising as the grip reminded me I was visible,accessible,owned.
We stopped near a group of executives. Names blurred together,introductions shuffled,congratulations repeated. Ethan's presence demanded attention,authority, and control."You've made quite the statement," one said.
"Only on the surface,"he replied,voice smooth,measured,detached...i felt the smile even though it wasn't for me.
Later, near the balcony,I finally found a moment to speak."Do I get any say in where I stand?"
He didn't look at me."Not tonight."
I stiffened.
The city stretched below,distant lights twinkling like tiny stars.My voice was low,but firm."I'm not a child."
His eyes flicked to mine,sharp and assessing."And you're not independent,"he said quietly."Not here."
The music swelled inside the room,laughter ricocheted off walls,applause broke in waves...to anyone watching,we looked perfect—pinned into the image of a powerful couple.But I felt a tug of resistance inside, quiet,restrained.A small pulse of capability that reminded me I was still human,still myself, still present.
I realized then,that this wasn't about pretending to be his wife.It wasn't about the charm or the ease or even the smiles,it was about visibility,control and Image.And I had no choice but to fit into it, step by step,one public appearance at a time.
The night dragged on,every moment measured.My smile was evaluated,my words parsed,my gestures scrutinized. Even in the small spaces between conversations, I felt the invisible weight of expectation pressing down on me.The world didn't see me,It saw a reflection of Ethan Hale's image, with me carefully featured as part of the display.
When the car finally pulled away from the venue,the city lights streaked past,a blur of gold and white.Exhaustion settled deep in my bones__ I hadn't spoken more than a handful of sentences,and yet every muscle, every thought,every nerve had been taxed.
"You did well,"Ethan said, finally,his voice breaking the silence that had stretched for hours.
I swallowed,unsure whether to accept the praise or to resist it.It felt hollow and distant yet,I felt the faint pull of pride,buried beneath fear and exhaustion.
As the city rushed past,one truth became undeniable;this marriage wasn't about love. Not yet,maybe not ever__it was about image,about the control and co-operation. And I was learning,how little of myself I was allowed to keep—and how closely I was being watched every second of the way.
Every smile,every word,every motion carefully calculated reminded me that on paper,I was his wife.In reality,I was a piece of the tool he owned —and every heartbeat I felt in his presence was a liability.
I closed my eyes for a moment,resting against the seat,letting the soft hum of the engine fill the void.I reminded myself that i would survive this.
One day one public appearance at a time.
And maybe,just maybe,I would find a way to carve out a space for myself in this meticulously constructed world.