I look…expensive. Intimidating. Manufactured.
This isn’t me.
This is Dimitri’s version of me.
My pulse stutters with a mix of anger and humiliation. He wants to parade me in front of the cameras like some glittering trophy—proof that I’m on his side, proof that our marriage is real, proof that I’m not the woman the media says I am. And maybe also proof that he owns me.
I grip the edge of the vanity, breathing through the ache swelling beneath my ribs.
He thinks I leaked the story.
He thinks I betrayed him.
And now I have to walk beside him like a loyal wife.
I blink back the burn in my eyes. Not tears. Not tonight.
Before I can gather myself, my door opens without a knock.
Dimitri walks in.
His eyes sweep over me—slow, controlled, unreadable—but there’s a flicker there. Something sharp. Something dark. Something satisfied.
And I feel suddenly, painfully aware of the gold dress clinging to my body.
“The PR agent is outside in the living room,” he says.
“What?” I whisper. “I can’t do this. I can’t look—”
“I don’t care.”
He snaps it—cold, sharp, merciless.
“You will walk out this door with me and pretend you’re a loving wife. If you don’t do that, I’ll show you how brutal the media thinks I am. Don’t test me, Vivian.”
My heart swells with fear.
He’s never treated me like this. Never spoken to me like this.
His eyes burn with anger, and everything about him is hostile—his stance, his jaw, his breathing.
“Do you hear me?” he barks.
I nod, short and tight.
“Good. Now come over here.”
I walk to him on stiff legs, each step scraping against the inside of my chest. He takes my arm—firm, claiming, cold.
“Fix your face,” he mutters. “If you mess this up, we’re going to have a problem.”
Then he pushes the door open, and we step out together.
Into the lights. Into the cameras.
Into the performance of my life.
As my eyes adjust to the glare, I smile—not at the crowd, not at the flashes—but at Dimitri. He smiles back, practiced and perfect, his arm tightening around my waist in a way that makes me feel owned, not adored.
