The cameras were already waiting. They always were.
Even before the car slowed to a stop, I could hear them. The distant murmur of voices, the sharp crack of shutters firing in rapid succession, the restless energy of people who fed on spectacle and never felt full.
Daniel stepped out first.
The noise surged instantly.
His hand appeared in front of me, open and steady.
For half a second, I hesitated.
Then I placed my hand in his.
The reaction was immediate.
Gasps. Whispers. Phones lifting higher. A dozen headlines forming at once.
I stepped out beside him, shoulders back, chin lifted. The air felt colder than it should have been, heavy with judgment and expectation.
I smiled.
Not softly. Not apologetically.
A composed smile. One that suggested intention.
Daniel's grip tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing against my knuckles as if to remind me he was there.
"Stay close," he murmured, lips barely moving.
"I planned to," I replied.
We walked together, the flash of cameras painting everything in stark white bursts. Someone called my name. Someone else called me something uglier.
I did not look at them.
I looked straight ahead.
Inside the venue, the noise dulled but did not disappear. It transformed into something quieter and more insidious. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Eyes tracked our movement across the marble floor.
This was not curiosity.
This was assessment.
Daniel's family stood near the center of the room, perfectly arranged. His mother noticed us instantly. Her gaze flicked from our joined hands to my face, then back again.
She smiled.
"You're punctual," she said.
"We wanted to make an impression," Daniel replied.
Her eyes lingered on me.
"You certainly have."
The charity event unfolded around us with mechanical precision. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose and fell. People approached with practiced warmth, each interaction a subtle probe.
"How are you adjusting?"
"You must find the attention overwhelming."
"It can't be easy, stepping into such a legacy."
I answered carefully. Calmly. Never defensively.
Daniel remained close, a constant presence at my side. When someone lingered too long, he intervened. When questions edged too near the truth, he redirected.
It was choreography.
And we were performing it well.
Across the room, Evelyn watched.
She did not approach. She did not look away either. Her expression was neutral, but her posture was rigid, as though she were bracing against something unseen.
At one point, our gazes met.
I did not break eye contact.
She was the first to look away.
A reporter slipped past security during the second hour.
She was younger than the others. Smarter. Careful.
"Mrs. Ashbridge," she said quietly, positioning herself where retreat would look rude. "Do you feel this marriage is built on honesty?"
The surrounding conversations softened. People leaned closer without appearing to.
Daniel turned toward me, his body angled protectively.
I felt the weight of the moment settle into my chest.
"This marriage," I said evenly, "is built on reality."
The reporter blinked.
"And the scandal?"
I tilted my head slightly.
"The scandal," I said, "was built on convenience."
That answer would circulate for days.
In the car afterward, the silence was thick.
"You didn't freeze," Daniel said at last.
"I wasn't going to."
"You didn't ask permission."
"I didn't need it."
He studied me, something thoughtful stirring behind his eyes.
"You realize they'll dissect everything you said."
"I hope they do."
He exhaled slowly.
"You're changing the narrative."
"That was always the plan."
The estate came into view, its gates rising like something alive.
Daniel's phone buzzed. He checked it once and went still.
"The leak stopped," he said.
My stomach tightened.
"Just like that?"
"Yes."
"That's not relief," I said. "That's strategy."
He didn't argue.
As the car rolled into the driveway, something felt wrong. A light glowed in the east wing, brighter than usual. Curtains drawn where there were never curtains.
Daniel noticed it too.
Before either of us could speak, my phone buzzed.
Unknown sender.
You're very convincing.
Another message followed.
But performances require an audience.
A third arrived almost immediately.
And ours is growing impatient.
I looked at the house, every window suddenly feeling like an eye.
Inside, someone was no longer content to manipulate from a distance.
They had seen me smile.
And they wanted to see what I would do next.