Friday arrived far too quickly.
The week blurred by in meetings, scheduled appearances, and carefully curated silences. Blake and I didn't speak more than necessary, and yet we moved in tandem—two players reading from the same polished script. There was a rhythm to it now, a choreography of glances and gestures that only made sense in the language of public performance.
But tonight would be different. Bigger. Brighter.
The annual Velmora Foundation Charity Gala wasn't just a high-society affair—it was the event. The kind of night that made headlines, where legacy families flaunted donations like diamonds, and the city's elite paraded their status under chandeliers.
And this year, Blake and I were the centerpiece.
I stood in front of the mirror in the penthouse bedroom I refused to call mine. The stylist had done a flawless job—my hair swept up in a soft chignon, makeup like airbrushed power. I wore a gown Evelyn had hand-selected: icy silver silk that clung and flowed in perfect proportions, the back dipping daringly low.
It was stunning.
And I felt nothing.
A knock on the door. "Ready?" Blake's voice, smooth and measured.
I opened it without replying.
He stood in a tailored black tuxedo, tie sharp, pocket square crisp. His dark hair was brushed back, his expression unreadable.
He looked... devastating.
His gaze swept over me, pausing for a breath longer than it should have.
"You look beautiful," he said simply.
I blinked. "Thanks."
We walked to the elevator without touching.
---
The gala was held in the glass ballroom at the top of the Sableton Tower, every inch dripping in opulence. Paparazzi swarmed outside. Flashes exploded as we stepped onto the red carpet, hands clasped lightly—not tightly, just enough to be seen.
"Smile," Blake murmured under his breath.
I did. A little too perfectly.
Inside, the orchestra swelled, chandeliers glimmered, and every eye followed us.
"Celine! Blake!" A reporter approached, mic in hand. "How does it feel to attend your first public event as husband and wife?"
I turned slightly, my practiced smile in place. "It's an honor to represent both of our families at such an important gathering. We're proud to support the Foundation's work."
"And married life?" she pressed.
Blake's arm slid naturally around my waist. "We're adjusting," he said, smoothly. "It helps when you admire your partner."
That line earned a few swoons. The reporter beamed. "Perfect. Thank you both!"
We glided further into the ballroom, dodging more cameras and well-wishers. Evelyn caught up to us moments later, radiant in emerald. She kissed both of our cheeks, glowing.
"You two are the talk of the city," she whispered with delight.
"We aim to impress," I said.
"I have no doubt," she winked.
The night unraveled in waves: speeches, champagne, dancing. Blake and I mingled together when necessary, then drifted apart as we spoke with various donors and executives. I made polite conversation, praised the Foundation's causes, and signed checks with perfect poise.
Still, I was hyperaware of him—his voice across the room, the curve of his jaw under soft lighting, the way people leaned in when he spoke.
He was a master at this game.
And I hated how easily I was starting to play it.
Midway through the evening, a live auction began. Blake returned to my side, his presence calm and composed.
"They're auctioning a private island," I muttered under my breath.
He gave me a sidelong glance. "Tempted?"
"I'd rather bid on solitude."
His lip twitched. "You and me both."
For a moment, our eyes met.
And something passed between us—not warmth, but recognition. As if we were both drowning in the same crystal pool.
As the final auction item closed, the ballroom shifted to dancing. A live string quartet took over, and couples began to fill the polished floor. Blake extended a hand.
"Shall we, Mrs. Aldridge?"
I stared at his hand for a beat too long. Then I took it.
His hand was warm, steady. We moved across the floor in practiced ease. The cameras returned, as expected. We smiled for them.
"Relax," he murmured. "They're just photos."
"I don't like being watched."
"You get used to it."
I didn't reply. Because I never wanted to.
After two dances and a final speech by the Foundation's director, the evening officially wound down. The music softened, guests trickled out. Evelyn left early, satisfied and glowing.
We waited for our car in the quiet glow of the entrance, the night air cool against my skin. Blake shrugged off his jacket and draped it over my bare shoulders without a word.
I stiffened.
"You'll catch a cold," he said.
"I'm fine."
He didn't take it back.
When the car arrived, we climbed in. I leaned into the window, watching the city blur. He sat beside me, silent.
At a red light, I felt him glance at me.
"You played your part well tonight," he said softly.
I turned. "So did you."
We stared at each other.
And then I looked away.
Because no matter how polished the night had been—no matter how many times our hands touched or smiles matched—this wasn't love.
It was survival in diamonds.
And I was still pretending not to bleed.