To the outside world, it’s devotion. A man claiming his wife. But I know better. I know exactly what this is. We kiss for the cameras. We hug.
He leans down, lips brushing my ear, whispering sweet lies meant for microphones and headlines, not for me.
We move around the living room performing the most mundane tasks—pouring drinks, adjusting my dress, touching his hand like it’s all instinct. A beautifully curated fantasy.
It’s the most excruciating hour of my life.
When the time is finally up, and the PR team steps into the elevator, smiling, satisfied, oblivious, Dimitri drops his arm from my waist as if my skin burns him.
“Good,” he says, already cold again. “Now go prepare your speech. We have one more hour.”
Then he turns his back on me without hesitation.
By six-thirty, Dimitri escorts me out to the car like a possession—one hand on my back, firm, controlling, guiding me the way someone would handle something expensive but not precious.
Kyle starts toward us, worry tightening his features. “I’ll ride with—”
One cold look from Dimitri stops him mid-sentence. Kyle’s jaw clenches, but he steps back, helpless, leaving me to my fate.
Dimitri opens the passenger door for me—not with tenderness, but with purpose—and waits until I sit. He shuts it with a solid, final click that feels like the closing of a cage. He moves around the front of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and without a word, we pull out of the garage.
The silence is thick, heavy.
The city lights blur past the windows.
And Dimitri keeps his eyes fixed on the road, jaw tight, like the very sight of me could derail whatever resolve he’s clinging to.
The venue is the ballroom of one of the Rusnaks’ luxury hotels—crystal chandeliers blazing above, their light scattering across the polished marble floor. The media swarm behind velvet ropes, cameras flashing like a hundred impatient stars. Every click and burst of light feels like a dagger against my skin.
As we arrive, the paparazzi descend, shouting questions, their voices a chaotic wave. My chest tightens. I remember that night—days ago, maybe a lifetime ago—when I’d kissed him for the cameras, a performance meant to deceive. That memory bites at me now.
Dimitri’s hand is firm on my back as he leans slightly toward one of the mics. “Relax,” he says, his voice calm but carrying steel beneath it. “The whole truth will be out in a few minutes.”
We step into the ballroom, the crowd parting slightly as they recognize us. Reporters and photographers hover, some businessmen I assume are investors in Dimitri’s businesses. None of his brothers are here, and I didn’t tell any of my friends, so I don’t expect to see anyone familiar.
Dimitri guides me forward, each step measured, his presence like a shield. The podium is ahead, bathed in light, awaiting our performance. We stop before it, and I feel the weight of every eye in the room pressing down on me. The truth—or maybe the lie—is coming, and there’s no turning back.
We reach the podium. I step up beside him, heels clicking against the polished floor. Dimitri’s hand slides to rest lightly over mine like a tether keeping me from falling apart.
He clears his throat, and suddenly the room hushes. Every camera, every pen, every whisper is on us. His voice rolls out, smooth and practiced.
“Good evening, everyone,” he begins. “I know there have been many rumors circulating about my marriage. Allow me to make something perfectly clear.” He pauses, eyes scanning the room, then lands on me. “Vivian Laurent is not here by force, nor is she a pawn in anyone’s game. She is the woman who saved me from chaos, from a life that I thought I was doomed to live. And any suggestion otherwise is a lie.”
I force myself to meet the audience’s gaze, not his. But I steal a glance at him—Dimitri’s jaw is tight, eyes hard, calculating. There’s a flicker of something there, something raw and unguarded, that makes my chest twist.
A reporter calls out: “Is this about the leak, Mr. Rusnak?”
Dimitri leans slightly toward the mic, gaze unwavering. “Yes. The story is false. And let me be clear: This marriage is real. Every word of it. And Vivian”—his voice softens just a fraction—“Vivian is my wife. Nothing else matters.”
I hear murmurs, clicks, flashes. I can feel the weight of their disbelief and curiosity, but I keep smiling. Lips pressed into a perfect curve, teeth hidden. My hand brushes against his, and for the cameras, it’s tender. For me, it’s electric.
Another reporter shouts, “But what about the revenge allegations?”
Dimitri’s eyes snap to him, a sharp warning buried in their gray depths. “They’re lies,” he says loudly. “We married because we chose each other. No one forced this. No one manipulated us. That story is a fabrication.”
He lets his gaze sweep the room. “I love my wife so much.” My heart skips a beat as his hand tightens around mine. “And I’m not above taking legal steps against anyone who says otherwise. Thank you.”
When he finishes, there’s a beat of stunned silence, then the room erupts into polite applause. Cameras flash likefireworks. People rise from their seats, murmuring to one another. Investors, journalists, everyone—they’re buying it.
