But we were also a couple pretending to be happy—dangerously close to confusing performance with reality.
When we reached the entrance to the ballroom, the scale of the event hit me immediately.
The hall was massive, adorned with grand chandeliers, lush floral arrangements, and soft, elegant lighting. Journalists and photographers waited near the entrance, documenting the arrival of important guests. My heart raced again as curious, appraising eyes turned toward us.
I felt Enrico’s hand tighten gently around mine—a reassuring gesture that warmed something deep inside me, despite my efforts to deny it. He appeared completely at ease, posture confident as he smiled calmly for the cameras and guided me forward.
We walked the red carpet, and I was acutely aware of the steady, protective pressure of his hand against my back. He kept the contact subtle but constant as he greeted people who recognized him.
No matter how many times I reminded myself this was just a performance, my body reacted instinctively—shivering beneath the heat of his touch.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, his lips nearly brushing my ear.
“I’m trying,” I murmured back, keeping a polite, fake smile in place. “I hate this. I hate that Eloá has this kind of power over us.”
He tightened his grip around my waist, pulling me slightly closer.
“She won’t win, Valentina. I won’t let anything happen to you or Clara.”
His voice was firm, resolute—and I hated how calming it was.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel completely alone.
Having Enrico beside me, sharing the weight of this responsibility, was a bittersweet comfort.
We were led to a reserved table at the center of the ballroom—strategically placed, impossible to miss. Enrico pulled out my chair, his hand light at my waist as I sat. I kept my smile fixed, aware of dozens of eyes on us.
“You look beautiful together!” an elegantly dressed woman exclaimed as she stopped at our table. “It’s so wonderful to see such a united, loving couple these days.”
Enrico smiled and answered before I could even think.
“That’s very kind of you. I’m a very lucky man.”
I swallowed, holding my smile as his words stirred chaos in my chest.
When the woman walked away, Enrico leaned in slightly.
“I think we’re doing well, don’t you?”
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
“Enrico Ferrara—what a pleasant surprise!” a voice dripping with malice said behind us.
Antonio Dias, a journalist notorious for sensationalism, stopped at our table. His gaze swept over me shamelessly before turning to Enrico.
“And with your wife. I thought you weren’t exactly thesocial eventtype.”
Enrico straightened instantly, his expression sharpening—protective, dangerous.
“We’re exactly where we belong,” he replied coolly. “I hope you’re prepared to write something less sensational this time.”
Antonio laughed, unimpressed.
“I’m just curious how long you’ll be able to keep up this image of marital bliss. You’re both very convincing actors.”
I felt Enrico tense beside me.
“Don’t mistake courtesy for weakness,” he said quietly. “My marriage isn’t entertainment.”
