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David Loris didn't fall in love.
He bought a solution.
A pretty face. A compliant wife. A pawn in his game.
His parents demanded a bride — or he'd lose everything.
So he hired one.
No emotions. No complications.
Just a contract.
Until… he saw her cry.
And wondered why it mattered.
---
He didn't wake up.
He unfolded.
Every morning, same ritual: black coffee, no sugar. Suit pressed. Tie straight. Emotions locked in a vault labeled "Do Not Open — Risk of Humanity."
At 26, he ran Loris Industries — steel, oil, real estate — a kingdom built on silence and strategy. His parents? Old money. Old rules. "Marry. Settle. Produce an heir."
When they threatened to cut him off unless he found a wife?
He didn't panic.
He calculated.
Hired a matchmaker. Posted an ad. Sifted through profiles like résumés.
Until her name popped up.
Jennifer Benz.
Orphan. Quiet. Desperate.
Perfect.
No baggage. No drama. No expectations.
Just… available.
He paid the agency. Signed the papers. Set the date.
She was a tool. A placeholder. A temporary solution.
He didn't need her heart.
He needed her presence.
---
She slept in the guest suite — not his bed. Not yet.
He watched her from the doorway — hair tangled, lips parted, breathing slow and even.
Beautiful.
Too beautiful.
He shook his head.
Don't be stupid, Loris. She's a transaction.
He turned away — but not before noticing the scar on her wrist. Thin. Faint. Like a whisper of pain.
Where did that come from?
He didn't ask.
I didn't care.
Or so he told himself.
---
They arrived at the charity ball — him in tailored black, her in emerald silk, hair pinned back, smile practiced.
Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted. Society vultures gossiped.
"Who's the new Mrs. Loris?"
"Is she real… or just a prop?"
David held her hand — stiff, formal — like holding a porcelain doll.
But then…
She laughed.
Not forced. Not polite.
A real laugh — loud, bright, unapologetic — at a child's joke about spilled champagne.
And something inside him… shifted.
He stared.
Her eyes sparkled.
Her cheeks flushed.
Her fingers brushed his sleeve — accidental — and he didn't pull away.
The photographer captured it — the moment — and David's heart skipped.
Not possible.
She's just an actress.
But his pulse disagreed.
---
💭 THE DRIVE HOME — THE FIRST CRACK
Back in the car, she leaned her head against the window — exhausted, glowing.
"You did well tonight," he said — voice rougher than usual.
She turned. Eyes wide. Surprised.
"I… I guess I did."
Silence.
Then:
"You're not what I expected," he admitted — almost against his will.
She blinked.
"What did you expect?"
"A simpering debutante. A trophy wife. Someone who'd smile and nod and disappear."
She tilted her head.
"And instead…?"
"You're… real."
The word hung in the air — heavy, dangerous.
He cleared his throat.
"But that doesn't change anything."
She didn't argue.
Just looked at him — like she saw through the armor. Through the ice. To the man underneath.
And for the first moment…
He didn't look away.
---
Later, in his study, he found her journal — hidden under her pillow.
He didn't mean to read it.
But his name was on the page.
"Today, David called me 'real.' I don't know what to do with that. I'm scared. Not of him. Of myself. Of feeling… something. When I'm supposed to feel nothing."
His chest tightened.
He closed the book.
Left it on her bed — untouched — with a note:
"Don't write things you can't take back."
He meant it as a warning.
But she read it as… kindness.
---
He couldn't sleep.
I kept seeing her laugh. Her eyes. Her scar.
He stood outside her door — hand raised — then lowered.
Don't be weak, Loris.
But he opened the door anyway.
She was curled under the covers — breathing slow — like she'd finally found peace.
He stepped inside.
Sat beside her.
Didn't touch her.
Just watched.
Then — without thinking — he tucked the blanket around her shoulders.
She stirred.
"Mmm… David?"
His name on her lips — soft, sleepy — hit him like a grenade.
He froze.
She didn't wake.
But her hand brushed his — accidental — and his fingers twitched.
Not a contract.
Not a transaction.
Something else.
He stood.
I walked away.
But didn't close the door.
---
She found him in the kitchen — pouring coffee — wearing the same suit as yesterday.
"You tucked me in," she said — voice quiet, wondering.
He didn't look at her.
"Reflex. Don't read into it."
She smiled — small, sad.
"I won't."
But she did.
And so did he.
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