The ballroom at the Velvet Crest Hotel shimmered with lights and luxury, a gilded cage of expectations. Velvet drapes framed floor-to-ceiling windows, and crystal chandeliers hovered above the sea of designer gowns and tuxedos. Guests moved like currents in an ocean of politeness and wine.
This was our engagement party.
And I felt nothing.
Blake stood on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by executives, old family friends, and people who only cared about how our last names were about to fuse into something newsworthy. He laughed at something an Aldridge board member said, his hand tucked casually in his pocket, the image of composed celebration.
We hadn't spoken since the proposal.
Not a message. Not a glance. And I had no intention of starting now.
I adjusted the neckline of my off-shoulder emerald gown and nodded at the next well-wisher in line. Everyone had something to say.
"So elegant tonight, Celine!"
"The ring is absolutely breathtaking."
"A power couple if I've ever seen one."
I smiled through all of it. Nodded. Thanked. But my thoughts were numb. None of this felt real—not the champagne, not the polite laughter, not the fact that I was expected to play the role of blushing fiancée while standing next to a man I could barely tolerate.
Blake and I shared the stage when we were called up for the formal toast. His hand brushed against mine as we lifted our glasses, and I resisted the urge to recoil. He didn't look at me. He looked through me, out into the crowd, as if trying to avoid acknowledging we were joined by anything other than a shared headline.
"To unity!" someone declared.
I raised my glass like a puppet on strings.
To survival, I thought instead.
After the toast, we separated again. It was as if an invisible line was drawn across the ballroom, keeping us orbiting in opposite circles. At some point, we posed for photos together—my hand lightly on his arm, his smile camera-perfect. We looked flawless. Polished. Cold.
I wanted to scream.
Sarah had warned me that I'd hate this part the most. That performing affection would exhaust me more than any boardroom war. She was right. My face hurt from smiling, and I could already feel the headache building behind my eyes.
I caught Blake's gaze once from across the room. Just once. He held it for a moment too long—enough to acknowledge me, but not enough to say anything. Then he looked away.
Good.
I didn't want conversation. I wanted to go home, take off this dress, and pretend tonight had never happened.
"You two are practically royalty," my father said as he approached with a glass of red in hand. "The guests can't stop talking."
I didn't respond.
He leaned closer. "You could at least try to look like you're enjoying it."
I gave him a tight smile. "I'm here, aren't I?"
He sighed. "It won't kill you to warm up to the boy. Blake is a good man. Strong, calculated, loyal—"
"Exactly," I said, voice low. "Calculated. Everything is a move with him."
My father's expression hardened, but he walked away before I could say anything else.
I turned to the bar and ordered water. My throat was dry, but alcohol would only make the mask slip faster. I couldn't afford that. Not with the press hiding behind every pillar.
Behind me, I heard a familiar voice.
"Beautiful party."
It was Evelyn Aldridge. Graceful and warm as ever, dressed in a deep plum gown with a genuine smile that softened the edge of the evening.
"Thank you," I said. "It's all been… lovely."
She studied my face like she could see through the polite tone.
"You looked like you wanted to disappear during the toast."
I gave a half-smile. "I've never been good at pretending."
"That's not what I've seen," she said kindly. "You've been pretending since the day you signed the merger contract."
That caught me.
She continued, "I was married to a man I adored, Celine. But our first year? It was filled with cold silences and slammed doors. Love came later—after truth."
I said nothing. I couldn't.
She patted my hand once. "Don't confuse silence with failure."
Then she drifted away, leaving me rooted there, more shaken than I wanted to admit.
When I turned back, Blake was gone from his last corner. I scanned the room, found him near the terrace doors, talking to one of the journalists. I didn't care. I wouldn't care.
The hours dragged on. The music shifted from classical to soft jazz. Some guests danced, others drifted away. The crowd thinned but the spotlight lingered.
Eventually, our families gathered us to cut the cake. A five-tiered monument to capitalism and romance, its frosting laced with gold leaf and symbolism.
Blake stood beside me again, expression unreadable.
"Ready to fake another moment?" he asked, so low only I could hear.
I met his eyes, my voice just as low. "Haven't we perfected that already?"
We cut the cake. We posed. We smiled.
And we said nothing more.
When the party finally wound down and the last flashbulb faded, I slipped out the side exit, leaving Blake behind in a crowd of congratulators. I didn't owe him a goodbye.
In the privacy of the car, I looked down at the ring again. Cold. Heavy. A symbol of everything we weren't.
We were partners in a performance. Nothing more.
And even if the whole world applauded us—
—I would never give him the one thing they all expected me to.
My heart.