I woke later than usual the next morning.
Not because I'd slept well, but because I had stayed up most of the night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every glance, every touch, every word from the gala.
It was exhausting, pretending to love someone you didn't even trust.
And yet, it wasn't Blake that haunted my thoughts—it was the way he'd looked at me during that final dance. Not cold. Not smug. Just… tired. Like we were both running in a race neither of us signed up for.
I slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen. The penthouse was silent. He wasn't around. A note on the counter—Went out for coffee. Back soon.—was his only trace. I read it twice, then tucked it away.
There was something strangely domestic about the gesture. Almost sweet.
I hated that I noticed.
I made myself tea and curled up on the couch, still in my robe, knees tucked under. Outside, Velmora glowed in the late morning haze. The city never really stopped moving. And neither could I.
The press was still buzzing. My phone buzzed with messages from former classmates, distant relatives, investors. Everyone had an opinion about our appearance at the gala. Everyone had something to say.
Except me.
I was tired of pretending to care.
Sarah called in mid-morning, her voice brisk but warm. "You're trending again. You and Blake look like the next generation of royalty."
"Royalty without a crown," I muttered.
"You're still a queen," she said. "And queens endure."
That made me smile. A little.
She paused. "How are you, really?"
"I'm managing," I said. "But I don't know what I'm managing toward."
Sarah didn't say anything for a beat. Then she replied, "Sometimes, you manage until it becomes something real."
After the call, I dressed in something soft—cashmere and silk. I didn't want to wear armor today.
By the time Blake returned, he looked less like a CEO and more like a man. Hoodie. Ballcap. Coffee in hand.
He froze when he saw me in the kitchen, like he hadn't expected me to be there. We exchanged a few words—short, honest, even awkward—and then we just stood in the morning light, sipping quietly.
When he asked me if I hated the gala, I didn't know what to say. I didn't hate it.
I hated how easy it was to pretend.
Later, after he'd gone to his office for a few hours, I found myself staring at our wedding photo. The one his mother insisted we take. Framed already. Positioned on the shelf like it had always been there.
We looked good together.
Too good.
And something about that terrified me more than anything else.
Because if we could fake it that well… what would happen if we ever started to believe it?
I made lunch but barely touched it. My appetite had taken a backseat to anxiety. I hated that I kept checking my phone to see if he texted. Hated it even more that he hadn't.
I opened the planner Sarah had color-coded for the week ahead—meetings, press interviews, charity board introductions. Our new life was unfolding like an endless list of expectations.
And somewhere inside me, I knew I couldn't keep doing it this way.
That night, I stayed in the living room long after sunset, curled up with a blanket, laptop open but untouched. The wedding photo still stood on the shelf. I stared at it again.
Who were those people? Who were we becoming?
A soft click made me turn. Blake was home. He loosened his tie, glanced at me, and paused in the doorway.
"You didn't eat."
"Neither did you," I said.
He nodded slowly, then disappeared down the hall.
It wasn't cold. Just… careful.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
Because it meant we weren't giving up.
Not yet.