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.

The door slammed with a finality that echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot. I stood frozen in the kitchen, staring at the space where Vincent had been moments before, his keys still warm from his grip, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air like a ghost.

The dining room table stretched before me, a monument to my foolishness. Crystal glasses caught the light, casting fractured rainbows across the white tablecloth. The roast sat cooling in its juices, the vegetables I'd spent an hour preparing wilting under the chandelier's harsh glow. Three place settings, perfectly arranged—one for Vincent, one for me, and one for Lucas, who rarely joined us but whom I'd hoped might stay tonight.

I sank into my chair, the silk of my dress whispering against the leather. The silence pressed against my eardrums, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Each second stretched like an eternity.

Becky's voice still echoed in my mind—that familiar lilt, sweet as poison, filtering through Vincent's phone. The way his entire body had changed the moment he heard her, like a marionette responding to invisible strings. The fear in his eyes, quickly masked but unmistakable. After two years of marriage, I knew that look. It was the same expression he wore whenever her name appeared in gossip columns or when old photos of them surfaced online.

I picked up my wine glass, the burgundy liquid trembling slightly. The vintage was expensive—Vincent's favorite, saved for special occasions. What had I been thinking? That a home-cooked meal could compete with whatever crisis had summoned him to her side?

The elevator chimed softly in the distance, and I straightened, hope fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird. But the footsteps that approached were lighter, more hesitant than Vincent's confident stride.

Lucas appeared in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, dark hair disheveled as if he'd been running his fingers through it. His eyes swept over the elaborate table setting, taking in the untouched food, the empty chairs, the obvious absence of his brother.

"Let me guess," he said, voice flat. "Emergency meeting?"

I set down my glass carefully, not trusting my voice. "Something like that."

He stood there for a moment, jaw working as if he were chewing on words he couldn't quite swallow. Then, to my surprise, he pulled out Vincent's chair and sat down.

"Well," he said, reaching for the wine bottle, "seems like a shame to let all this go to waste."

I blinked, caught off guard. "Lucas, you don't have to—"

"What, sit here and pretend everything's normal?" He poured himself a generous glass, then topped off mine. "Trust me, Camila, I've had plenty of practice."

He served himself a portion of the roast, the knife sliding through the meat with practiced ease. I watched him, this enigma of a brother-in-law who usually treated me with barely concealed disdain, now sitting at my abandoned table as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"This smells incredible," he said, cutting into the meat. He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. His eyebrows rose slightly. "Jesus, Camila. This is restaurant quality."

Heat crept up my neck. "It's nothing special. Just a recipe I found—"

"Bullshit." The word was sharp, but not unkind. "You've been cooking like this for two years, haven't you? All those dinner parties, all those 'casual' meals for Vincent's business partners."

I picked at my own plate, suddenly self-conscious. "I enjoy cooking."

"And he just... leaves." Lucas's voice carried an edge I'd never heard before. "Every time."

The observation hung between us, too close to the truth for comfort. I reached for my wine, using the motion to avoid his eyes. "He has responsibilities."

Lucas snorted. "Responsibilities. Right." He took another bite, then leaned back in his chair. "You know what's funny? Growing up, Vincent used to talk about having a real family someday. Sunday dinners, kids running around, the whole domestic fantasy."

My chest tightened. "People change."

"Do they?" His gaze was steady, searching. "Or do they just get scared?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Instead, I focused on the way the candlelight played across the crystal, the way the shadows danced on the walls. Anything but the knowing look in Lucas's eyes.

"He's afraid of you," Lucas said quietly.

The words hit me like a slap. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Think about it, Camila. You're everything he thought he wanted but was too much of a coward to actually accept. You're here, you're real, you're not some fantasy he can project his fears onto."

My hands trembled slightly as I set down my fork. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" His voice was gentler now, almost sad. "I've watched this family destroy everything good that comes near it. My parents, with their cold calculations. Vincent, with his obsession with a ghost. And you..." He paused, studying my face. "You're the only real thing in this house, and it terrifies him."

Tears pricked at my eyes, but I blinked them back. "Lucas—"

"You deserve better than this." The words came out fierce, protective. "You deserve someone who sees what they have instead of chasing shadows."

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling between us like a bridge I wasn't sure I was ready to cross. Outside, rain began to patter against the windows, a gentle rhythm that seemed to echo my heartbeat.

Lucas reached across the table and touched my hand briefly—just a whisper of contact, warm and reassuring. "For what it's worth, this is the best meal I've had in years."

I managed a small smile. "Thank you."

He squeezed my fingers once, then released them, returning to his food. We ate in companionable quiet, the storm outside growing stronger, the city lights blurring behind rain-streaked glass. For the first time in months, I didn't feel entirely alone.

Somewhere across town, Vincent was probably listening to Becky's carefully crafted tears, falling deeper into a web of nostalgia and manipulation. But here, in this moment, Lucas's unexpected kindness felt like a lifeline—a reminder that not everyone in the Müller family was content to let me drown in silence.

The realization both comforted and terrified me in equal measure.