_Alexandra Vega POV_
The East Wing smelled like lemons.
It shouldn't have. I don't keep fruit in here. Fruit rots. Fruit means someone was careless.
It was the cleaning spray. New brand. Housekeeping switched without asking. I'd fire them for less, but Mother picked them. Mother picks everything.
Including tonight.
I buttoned my cufflinks. Black onyx. No tie. Ties were for boardrooms. Tonight was not a boardroom. Tonight was theatre.
My phone lit up.
*Mother:* 8PM sharp. Don't be late, Alex. The Post has a photographer at the Valet. Smile this time.
I didn't reply. I never reply to Mother's instructions. Replying implies negotiation. There was no negotiation.
There was a contract. Signed. Notarized. Filed with my lawyer and hers.
_Contract Marriage Agreement: Vega, A / Hale, K._
_Term: 18 months._
_Clause 4.2: Public appearances as required for brand stability. Minimum: 1 per quarter._
_Clause 5.1: No emotional entanglement. No physical intimacy outside photographic necessity._
Mother wrote Clause 4.2.
She knew. She'd always known. Richard Hale doesn't give his daughter away for love. He trades her. I buy distressed assets. It was business.
Then the news started asking questions.
_"Vega Heir Married 3 Weeks, No Public Sightings."_
_"Is The Ice King's Marriage Already Cold?"_
_"Where Is Mrs. Vega? Trouble In Paradise?"_
Paradise.
Mother hates bad press. Bad press affects stock. Stock affects the board. The board affects me.
So Mother arranged dinner.
Le Cirque. Private room. Candles. A violinist she flew in from Milan. Photographer "coincidentally" at the bar.
_"You need to burn for her,"_ she said on the phone yesterday. _"Just for one night. Make them believe it. Smile. Touch her hand. Whisper something. Make it look real."_
Burn.
I don't burn.
I assess. I acquire. I close.
I looked at my watch. 7:12 PM. The West Wing was quiet.
Katrina Hale-Vega.
She'd been in Accounting for four weeks. Fixed Mexico City in three. Took blame for Shaw's incompetence and corrected it in six minutes. Worked until 4 AM Wednesday and still hit her deadline.
She doesn't cry. She doesn't ask. She says "Yes, Mr. Vega" and bleeds onto spreadsheets.
_"You've been waiting your whole life for someone to choose you over quiet."_
I said that. I shouldn't have. Clause 5.1. No emotional entanglement.
But I watched the security feed at 1:19 AM. Floor 27. Her asleep at her desk with my blazer over her shoulders. Dark circles. Coffee gone cold.
She looked... small.
Not weak. Never weak. But small in a building designed to make people feel small.
I'd left the blazer on purpose. The note too. _No. You weren't._
Clause 5.1 doesn't cover crossed-out apologies.
My phone buzzed again.
*Driver:* Car's ready, Mr. Vega.
I didn't move.
Katrina.
She would hate tonight. The dress Mother sent was in the West Wing closet now. Red. Silk. Backless. The kind of dress that says _"touch me"_ to a camera lens.
She'd wear it. Because she follows rules. Because she signed the same contract.
Because she's used to it.
That's what she said. _"Because I'm used to it."_
Used to taking blame. Used to silence. Used to men like Richard and Matteo deciding her value.
I cracked my knuckles. One sound.
No. Not anymore.
Not in my building. Not in my name.
I walked to the door connecting East and West. I don't use it. Clause 7.1: _Separate living quarters to be maintained._
I knocked once.
She opened it.
Hair down. Not up in her work bun. Black dress. Not red. Hers. Knee-length. High neck. Armor.
She'd ignored Mother's dress. Good.
"Mr. Vega," she said. Voice level. Eyes tired.
"Alexandra," I corrected. "Tonight, it's Alexandra. Cameras don't call me Mr. Vega when I'm holding my wife's hand."
She flinched at _wife_.
"The car's here," she said.
"I know." I didn't move from the doorway. "Mother arranged Le Cirque. Photographer at the valet. Violinist from Milan. Candles. The whole circus."
"I figured."
"She wants us to burn."
Katrina's eyes went to the floor. Then back up. "I don't... I'm not good at pretending."
"I know."
Silence.
She's not good at pretending. She's good at surviving. At numbers. At taking hits and calling them errors.
_Save it to the blood._
"Rule for tonight," I said. "You don't apologize. Not to me. Not to her. Not to the camera. You don't take blame for things you didn't do. Not even for bad lighting."
Her mouth opened. Closed.
"You don't have to burn," I said. "You just have to not freeze. Look at me when they take the photo. Not at the lens. At me. Like I'm the only person in the room."
"Why?"
"Because that's what people do when they're in love. They don't see the room."
I stepped closer. Not touching. Never touching. Clause 5.1.
But close enough that she could smell cedar. Close enough that she had to tilt her head up.
"Mother knows it's a contract," I said. Low. "She doesn't care. She cares about the stock price. She cares about the Post. She cares about grandsons I will never give her."
Katrina didn't breathe.
"So we give her a photo," I said. "One photo. You looking at me like I'm not a transaction. Me looking at you like you're not a liability. Thirty seconds. Then we go home. Separate wings. Contract intact."
"Thirty seconds," she repeated.
"Thirty seconds."
She nodded. Once. Sharp. Like she was signing another clause.
"Good," I said. I stepped back. "Wear the black. Not the red. Red is what Mother wants. Black is what you want. Tonight, you get what you want."
Her eyes widened. Just a fraction.
"Car's waiting," I said.
I turned. Walked to the East Wing door.
"Alexandra."
I stopped. Second time she'd used my name.
"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked. "You could've just... showed up at the restaurant. Told me to smile."
I didn't turn around.
"Because," I said, "you've been waiting your whole life for someone to choose you over quiet. Tonight, I'm choosing you over Mother's circus. But you have to choose yourself over silence."
I left.
---
7:47 PM.
Car idling. Driver holding the door.
She came out of the West Wing two minutes later. Black dress. Hair down. No jewelry.
She looked at me. Not at the car. Not at the driver. At me.
Like I was the only person in the room.
Thirty seconds hadn't started yet.
But it was already burning.