The photographs hit the internet at 6:47 AM.

I was still in my silk pajamas, nursing my first cup of coffee in the marble kitchen of our penthouse, when my phone erupted into a symphony of urgent ringtones. The PR team's emergency hotline. The family lawyer. Vincent's personal assistant. Even the housekeeper was calling—probably fielding calls from reporters already camping outside our building.

My hands didn't shake as I swiped to answer the first call. They never did anymore.

"Mrs. Müller, we have a situation," came the clipped voice of Janet, our head of public relations. "Photos of Mr. Müller with Isabella Rossi surfaced an hour ago. They're... compromising."

I set down my coffee cup with deliberate care, the porcelain making the softest clink against the marble countertop. "How compromising?"

"Hand-holding. Intimate dinner at Le Bernardin. Her head on his shoulder in the back of his car."

Of course. Isabella Rossi—the Brazilian supermodel with legs that went on for days and a smile that graced magazine covers worldwide. Vincent had been 'consulting' with her about some charity gala for weeks now. I'd seen her name on his calendar, blocked out in neat two-hour increments.

"I'll handle it," I said, already moving toward my laptop. "Send me everything."

The next three hours blurred together in a familiar dance of damage control. Press releases crafted with surgical precision. Strategic leaks to friendly journalists about Vincent's 'business dinner' with the model regarding her upcoming charity work. Social media posts carefully timed to flood the news cycle with other stories. Phone calls to editors, invoking old favors and making new promises.

By 10 AM, I was dressed in my armor—a tailored navy suit that made me look competent and unshakeable, my dark hair pulled back in a sleek chignon. I'd learned long ago that looking the part was half the battle in this world of appearances.

Vincent's office building buzzed with its usual morning energy, but I could feel the undercurrent of whispered conversations and stolen glances. The elevator ride to the forty-second floor felt endless, each floor a reminder of how high I'd have to fall if this all came crashing down.

The hallway outside Vincent's corner office was eerily quiet. Too quiet. Through the frosted glass, I could make out two figures—one unmistakably Vincent's tall, broad silhouette, and another, smaller and curved in all the ways that made men forget their wives existed.

I positioned myself strategically by the elevator bank, close enough to intercept any unwanted visitors but far enough to maintain plausible deniability. My phone buzzed constantly—more calls from reporters, more messages from the PR team, more updates on the social media fallout.

"Pathetic."

The voice came from behind me, dripping with familiar disdain. Lucas Müller emerged from the executive lounge, his dark hair tousled and his expensive shirt wrinkled, looking like he'd slept in the office again. At twenty-six, Vincent's younger brother had perfected the art of looking both devastatingly handsome and completely disinterested in everything around him.

"Good morning to you too, Lucas," I replied without turning around, keeping my eyes trained on Vincent's office door.

"Is this what you've reduced yourself to? Standing guard like some kind of... security detail?" He moved to stand beside me, his presence radiating the kind of restless energy that always made me feel slightly off-balance.

I kept my voice steady, professional. "I'm managing a situation."

"You're enabling a situation." His laugh was sharp, cutting. "Do you even hear yourself? 'Managing a situation.' Christ, Camila, you talk like a corporate press release."

The elevator dinged, and I tensed, but it was just another executive heading to a different floor. False alarm.

"This is my job, Lucas."

"No," he said, his voice dropping to something dangerously quiet. "Your job is supposed to be being his wife. This... this is just sad."

Before I could respond, Vincent's office door opened. Isabella Rossi stepped out first, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders like silk. She was even more stunning in person—the kind of beautiful that made other women question their own reflection. She glanced at me briefly, her dark eyes flickering with something between amusement and pity, before clicking away on heels that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

Vincent followed a moment later, straightening his tie. His steel-gray eyes found mine immediately, and for a split second, something unreadable passed across his face. Guilt? Annoyance? It was gone too quickly to decipher.

"Camila," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I wasn't expecting you."

"The photos," I said simply.

He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin. "Handled?"

"Handled."

Lucas made a sound of disgust. "Jesus, you two. Do you even hear yourselves? You sound like robots."

Vincent's jaw tightened, but he didn't look at his brother. His attention remained fixed on me, those gray eyes searching my face for something I wasn't sure I wanted him to find.

"We should go home," he said finally. "It's been a long morning."

The ride back to our penthouse was silent except for the soft hum of the car's engine and the occasional buzz of my phone. Vincent sat beside me in the backseat, his attention seemingly focused on the city streaming past his window, but I could feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a furnace.

Our penthouse felt different when we walked in together—larger somehow, the silence more pronounced. Vincent loosened his tie as he headed toward the kitchen, and I followed, already mentally cataloging what needed to be done for dinner. The housekeeper had left early, as she always did on Wednesdays, leaving me to manage the evening routine.

I was pulling ingredients from the refrigerator when I felt him behind me. The warmth of his body, the subtle scent of his cologne—bergamot and something darker, more complex. His hands settled on my shoulders, and I froze.

"You're cold," he said, his voice softer than I'd heard it in months.

Before I could protest, he was draping his suit jacket around my shoulders. The fabric was warm from his body heat and smelled like him—that intoxicating combination of expensive fabric softener and the cologne I'd given him for our first anniversary, back when I still believed in grand gestures.

"Vincent, I—"

"Sit," he said, guiding me toward one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. "You've been running around all morning cleaning up my mess. The least I can do is make sure you eat."

This was wrong. This wasn't how we worked. Vincent didn't do domestic. He didn't fuss over meals or worry about whether I was cold. He certainly didn't take responsibility for the messes that required cleaning up.

But his hands were gentle as he guided me to sit, and there was something in his eyes—a softness I hadn't seen in so long I'd almost forgotten it existed.

"I can handle dinner," I said weakly.

"I know you can." His fingers brushed against my cheek, barely a whisper of contact. "You handle everything. But tonight, let me."

I sat there, wrapped in his jacket, watching my husband move around our kitchen with an efficiency that surprised me. When had he learned to cook? When had he started paying attention to which vegetables I preferred, which seasonings I kept where?

The silence stretched between us, but it felt different from our usual cold detachment. There was something electric in the air, a tension that made my skin feel too tight and my breath catch in my throat.

Whatever this was—this unexpected tenderness, this moment of connection—I knew it wouldn't last. It never did. But for now, wrapped in his warmth and watching him try to take care of me, I allowed myself to pretend that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

The charity gala was a pageant of glass and light—a thousand glittering fragments of other people’s lives bouncing off the marble floors and mirrored walls. I stood at Vincent’s side in my ice-blue gown, the one Marlene from PR had chosen for me because it photographed well and matched the sapphire in my engagement ring. It was the kind of dress that made you look untouchable, which was the point. It was armor.

Vincent’s hand found my waist the second we stepped onto the carpet. His touch was practiced: fingers spread just enough to claim me, not enough to bruise. Cameras flashed. Reporters called his name, then mine, as if we were a team. The air was thick with perfume, anticipation, and the faint tang of resentment.

“Smile,” Vincent murmured, lips barely moving, his breath warm against my ear. “Let them see how happy we are.”

I tilted my face into a smile so polished it felt brittle, eyes fixed somewhere over the heads of the press. His arm tightened a fraction. To the world, we must have looked inseparable—a billionaire couple forged in scandal, now united against the world.

“Mr. Müller! Camila! Over here!”

Vincent’s grip didn’t falter. I could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his thumb pressed absently into my side as if staking a claim. For the briefest moment, I imagined the two of us as a portrait: all surface gloss, no depth.

Lucas trailed behind us, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jacket deliberately rumpled as if to mock the whole affair. When a photographer called his name, he rolled his eyes—a theatrical, unmistakable gesture of disdain. The flash caught him mid-sneer.

Inside, the ballroom shimmered with candlelight and crystal. Couples danced, laughter and music rising in elegant waves. Vincent played his part flawlessly—leaning in close, murmuring inside jokes for the benefit of onlookers, brushing imaginary lint from my shoulder.

I let him. I let him cup my elbow as we mingled, let him introduce me as “the one who keeps me out of trouble.” Each gesture was a performance, a set piece in a drama neither of us believed in. The applause, when it came, was for the illusion.

Lucas drifted between clusters of guests, never quite joining any conversation, his mouth twisted in a permanent half-smirk. More than once, I caught him watching me, his expression unreadable. When Vincent’s hand slipped from my waist to fetch drinks, Lucas sidled up beside me, gaze flicking pointedly to where Vincent was now chatting with Isabella Rossi—her dress a slip of black silk, her laughter ringing like a dare.

“Quite the show,” Lucas muttered, voice pitched low so only I could hear. “You two really should win an award for Best Performance.”

I kept my face neutral, knuckles white around my clutch. “Is it working?”

“For them?” He jerked his head toward the cameras. “Maybe. For you? I doubt it.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he melted back into the crowd, leaving me exposed beneath the ballroom’s unforgiving chandeliers.

After the gala, the car ride home was silent. Vincent’s hand remained at my waist until the penthouse elevator doors slid shut, releasing me like a prop finally no longer needed. I hung up my dress, washed off my makeup, and lay in bed listening to the city’s distant heartbeat, wondering how long I could keep breathing in the vacuum of this marriage.

The answer arrived the next morning, delivered in blocky headlines and cropped photographs. I found the newspapers stacked neatly outside our door, as if someone had arranged them for maximum humiliation.

“Vincent Müller and Wife: A Marriage in Name Only.”

Below the headline, a photo of Vincent’s arm around my waist, both of us smiling, perfectly posed. And beside us, Lucas—caught mid-roll of his eyes, lip curled in contempt, hands shoved in his pockets like he couldn’t wait to escape.

I stared at the image, bile rising. The article dissected our every movement, speculating about tension in the Müller family, quoting anonymous sources about cold dinners and separate bedrooms. I read it twice. My hands did not shake.

Vincent was already gone, his side of the bed cold, the scent of his cologne lingering faintly on the sheets. I poured myself coffee and watched the city turn gold, anger simmering beneath my skin. For once, it wasn’t at Vincent. Not entirely.

Lucas found me late that afternoon, after a day spent fielding calls from PR and family. He lingered in the foyer, hands jammed into his jacket, looking everywhere but at me. The air between us was thick with awkwardness.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “You got a minute?”

I didn’t answer, just stared. He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the floor.

“Look, about last night—about the gala. I screwed up.” His words came out fast, as if rehearsed. “I know those photos made it worse for you. I didn’t think—”

I cut him off. “Didn’t think, or didn’t care?”

His jaw tightened. “Both, maybe. I was pissed at Vincent. At all of this.” He gestured vaguely, as if the whole penthouse, the whole city, was the problem. “But you’re the one who gets burned, and that wasn’t fair. So… I’m sorry.”

The words hung between us, raw and unfamiliar. I waited for the familiar sting of sarcasm, but it didn’t come. Just silence, and Lucas’s awkward sincerity.

“Thank you,” I said at last. My voice sounded small, but steady. “I appreciate it.”

He nodded, shoulders relaxing minutely. “If you need me to talk to any of those vultures, just say the word.”

I almost smiled. Almost. “I think I can handle it.”

He grunted, turning away, but not before I caught the flicker of worry in his eyes. As the door clicked shut behind him, I felt the world tilt—just a little—on its axis. Maybe I wasn’t as alone in this house as I thought.

The next day, I made my way to Vincent’s office, my pulse a tight drumbeat in my throat. I needed to discuss the fallout, the next steps, the newest set of lies we’d have to tell. The waiting area outside his suite was empty, sunlight slanting in through glass walls, painting everything in sharp, unforgiving relief.

I reached for the handle, but the door opened before I could knock. Isabella Rossi stood inside, her hands smoothing Vincent’s tie, her fingers lingering far too long on the silk. She was close—too close—her body angled toward his, her lips parted in a soft, private smile.

Vincent didn’t see me at first. His eyes were on her, face unreadable.

Something inside me twisted—sharp, ugly, familiar. Jealousy, hot and cold at once, prickling beneath my skin. I wanted to look away, to pretend it meant nothing, but I couldn’t. I stood frozen, a silent witness to a moment I wasn’t meant to see.

Isabella stepped back, finally noticing me. Her smile didn’t falter. “Oh, Camila. We were just finishing up.”

Vincent’s gaze snapped to me, surprise flashing in his gray eyes before he masked it with that same cool detachment. “Camila. I didn’t expect you.”

It was the same line he’d used the last time. This time, I felt the weight of it, heavy and suffocating. I smoothed my skirt, forcing my voice steady. “I’m here about the press coverage.”

“Of course.” His tone was all business, but his eyes lingered too long on my face, as if searching for something—anger, accusation, anything. I gave him nothing.

Isabella lingered, her perfume cloying in the air between us. She collected her bag, brushing past me with a smirk so fleeting I almost doubted I’d seen it.

I stood in the doorway, spine straight, heart hammering. For a moment, Vincent and I simply stared at each other, the silence stretching taut. I swallowed the urge to demand an explanation, to ask questions I already knew the answers to.

Instead, I stepped into the office, closing the door behind me. Whatever we were, whatever we might become, would have to wait. For now, there was work to be done—and a marriage to keep up, even if only for the cameras.

Vincent’s office was drenched in rainlight, the sky outside streaked with gray, the city blurred behind glass. I hovered by the doorway, clutching my portfolio to my chest, feeling the weight of everything unsaid between us. The image of Isabella’s hands on his tie still lingered in my mind—a sour taste I couldn’t swallow down. But Vincent wasn’t looking at me with indifference today. Instead, he reached into a sleek white box on his desk and held it out.

"Here." His voice was almost gentle. "Macarons. From that place on Spring you like."

I stared at the pastel pastries nestled in their box—rose, pistachio, salted caramel—all colors soft and delicate, a peace offering in edible form. My stomach tightened. I hadn’t mentioned that bakery in months. Was this guilt, or something more?

"Thanks," I managed, accepting the box with careful fingers. The scent was sweet and unfamiliar in the office’s sterile air. I set my portfolio aside, my movements slow, uncertain. Vincent watched me, eyes narrowed, as if searching for a reaction. But my face was practiced neutrality.

He gestured to the leather couch. "You’ve been running all day. Sit."

I did, more out of habit than comfort, crossing my ankles, macaron box balanced on my lap. Vincent moved behind his desk, but he didn’t open his laptop or reach for his phone. Instead, he leaned against the edge, arms folded, gaze fixed on me.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic, muffled by the rain. My exhaustion crashed into me all at once—the sleepless nights, the endless PR battles, the ache in my chest that never seemed to fade. I bit into a rose macaron, the flavor dissolving on my tongue. Something in me unwound, just a fraction.

Vincent’s eyes softened, but he didn’t say anything. I leaned back, letting my head rest against the cool leather, eyelids fluttering. The city outside faded into white noise, and somewhere between the taste of sugar and the rain tapping the windows, I drifted. My last sight before sleep was Vincent still watching me, his jaw tense, hands restless.

When I woke, the light had shifted. My cheek was pressed against something warm and steady—Vincent’s thigh. I blinked, disoriented, feeling his hand gently stroking my hair. The sensation was so foreign, so tender, I almost wondered if I was dreaming.

He didn’t notice I’d woken. His fingers moved slowly, tracing the line of my scalp, pausing at the crown as if memorizing the shape of me. There was a tension to him—a kind of careful desperation—like he was afraid to break the moment. His thumb brushed the edge of my ear, so soft I barely felt it.

I kept my breathing even, pretending to sleep, letting myself soak in the rare comfort. Beneath the surface, questions clawed at me. Did he do this for her? Did his hands ever linger on Becky’s hair, gentle in the private dark? Was I only a stand-in, a body close enough to touch but never truly seen?

Vincent’s breath hitched. His hand stilled. I felt the shift—the wall slamming back into place. When I stirred, lifting my head, the softness vanished. He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, face already closing off.

"You fell asleep," he said, tone clipped, as if the intimacy had been an accident.

I sat up, smoothing my hair, cheeks flushed. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

"It’s fine." His gaze flicked away, searching for something else to focus on. "You should eat. You missed lunch."

I nodded, too tired to protest, reaching for another macaron. The silence between us was thick, charged with all the words we refused to say. I glanced at the rain streaking the glass, feeling the ache settle back into my bones.

The business dinner that night was a blur of crystal glasses, clinking forks, and forced laughter. Vincent played the role of the attentive husband, but his smiles didn’t reach his eyes. I watched him from across the table as he talked numbers and contracts, his hand tightening around his glass every time someone mentioned Isabella’s name or referenced the latest tabloid piece.

Afterward, I rode home alone. The penthouse was silent when I arrived, the city lights casting fractured patterns on polished floors. I reheated soup, set out plates, waited until midnight for Vincent to return. When he finally staggered through the door, the air was thick with whiskey and rain.

He dumped his keys on the counter, jacket askew, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. He leaned against the kitchen island, staring at me as if I’d done something unforgivable simply by existing.

"Why don’t you ever get mad at me?" Vincent’s voice was raw, unsteady—a choked whisper that skittered across the marble. "Why do you never fight? Never yell? Never… care enough to hate me?"

I set down my spoon, pulse quickening. "Vincent, I—"

He slammed his palm against the countertop, the sound sharp, echoing. "You handle everything. You clean up the messes, you smile for the cameras, you pretend nothing’s wrong. Do you even feel anything? Or am I just… another job to you?"

His words cut deep, slicing through the numbness I’d built like armor. I forced myself to meet his gaze—the storm in his eyes, the pain and fury swirling just beneath the surface. He was unraveling, bit by bit, and I was the catalyst.

"Would you rather I scream?" My voice trembled, half anger, half heartbreak. "Would that make you feel better?"

He laughed—a broken, bitter sound. "At least then I’d know you’re alive. At least then I’d know you’re here, that you’re not just—"

He trailed off, fists clenched, breathing ragged. The kitchen was too bright, the overhead lights harsh on his features, illuminating every crack in the façade.

"You want me to fight for you," I said quietly. "But you never gave me anything to fight for, Vincent. Not really."

He stared at me, lips parted, as if he’d never considered the possibility. A silence fell, thick as fog. In it, all the years of neglect and longing pressed against me, suffocating.

Just then, his phone buzzed, the shrill ringtone slicing through the tension. He glanced at the screen, color draining from his face. For a heartbeat, I saw fear—real, visceral—before he masked it.

He answered, voice taut. "Hello?"

I caught the faint sound of a woman’s voice, lilting and familiar, filtered through the line. Becky. Even through the static, I recognized her—her laughter, her casual entitlement. A knife twisting in my chest.

Vincent’s posture changed instantly—shoulders squared, voice low and urgent. "I’ll come. Give me half an hour."

He ended the call, avoiding my eyes. The soup congealed on the stove, the macarons untouched on the counter. Everything in the room felt suddenly colder.

"I have to go," he muttered, already grabbing his keys, his movements frantic. "Don’t wait up."

The door slammed behind him, leaving me alone with the echo of his desperation and the hollow ache of a meal untouched. Outside, the rain hammered the city, relentless, unforgiving.

I stared at the empty room, the silence heavy with everything I’d never said. The only sound was the distant hum of the elevator, carrying Vincent away—again—and the soft, persistent tap of rain against glass, counting down the moments until he returned, or until I finally decided I wouldn’t wait at all.