04. Impossible To Ignore

ARIELLA…..

I didn’t plan to follow him. But when I reached the garden I caught the faint scent of his cologne drifting down the hall and my feet just moved.

He was standing in the garden, hands in his pockets, staring out at the flowers like he belonged here.

“You need to explain yourself,” I said, shutting the door behind me.

He didn’t turn around right away. “About what?”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Don’t play dumb. You’re supposed to be three towns away, living your life and ignoring mine. Not showing up in my father’s house wearing a suit like you’re auditioning for the role of Perfect Son-in-Law.”

Finally, he turned. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes. They weren’t mocking me now. They were steady, serious.

“Your father invited me.”

“That doesn’t explain why you said yes,” I shot back.

His gaze flickered over my face, like he was memorizing it. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”

The words caught me off guard, but I forced a scoff. “Right. To see me squirm?”

Something in his jaw tightened. “No. To see you.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing came out. The room suddenly felt smaller, warmer, like the air had shifted between us.

He took a step toward me. “You think I married you to get back at my stepbrother. That it was all just a game.”

“That’s exactly what it was,” I said, though my voice was softer than I intended.

His lips curved, not in a smirk, but in something almost sad. “Not for me.”

My pulse stumbled. “What does that mean?”

He exhaled slowly, like he was deciding whether to tell me or walk away. His gaze locked in mine. I felt a little uncomfortable under his intense gaze. “It means I didn’t marry you for him, Ariella. I married you because I’ve been in love with you for years. Long before you even noticed I existed.”

I blinked, my throat tight. “That’s…ridiculous. We barely knew each other.”

“Maybe you didn’t know me,” he said quietly, “But I knew you. I saw you. And when you gave me the chance to be in your life—no matter the reason—I wasn’t about to say no.”

I hated how my chest ached at his words. I hated even more that a part of me believed him.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” I whispered.

“Because you were with him. You were Vaughn's fated mate. You loved him. I knew there was no place for me in your life. It was better I buried my feelings for you. And I knew you would never look at me the way I look at you.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. His confession hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. I should’ve walked away. I should’ve told him this didn’t change anything.

But instead, I just stood there, my heart betraying me with every beat.

“I know you married me just for revenge. And you will divorce me soon. You don't have to like me, just don't stop myself from loving you. Let me pamper you, cherish you. As long as we are in this relationship, let me live our moments fully. I want to make memories of us so that I could live the rest of my life with your memories.”

His voice was soft and I melted away. I was speechless. He reached out his hand and caressed my head.

“Good night, Wifey.” Saying that he walked inside leaving me stunned there.

***

I barely slept that night.

His words kept replaying in my head, stubborn and heavy: I married you because I’ve been in love with you for years.

Ridiculous. Impossible. Completely irrelevant.

By morning, I’d decided to treat it like I treated most inconvenient truths—ignore it until it went away.

When I came down for breakfast, my father was already at the head of the table, sipping coffee and reading the paper. And there he was, my so-called fake husband leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, a mug of black coffee in one hand, a plate of toast and scrambled eggs in front of him.

I froze in the doorway. “You’re still here?”

He glanced up, and the corner of his mouth curved in that infuriating almost-smile. “Good morning to you too, Miss Davenport.”

Wah!

Miss Davenport?

He never addressed me this way. He's playing his role in front of my father very well. I must say, he's a great actor.

My father didn’t even look up from the paper. “He stayed in the guest room last night. I thought it would be… proper.”

Proper. The word nearly made me choke. There was nothing proper about this situation.

“I have plans today,” I said, taking the seat farthest from him. “I won’t be home for dinner.”

My father hummed his approval, already moving on to the stock market page. But my husband’s gaze lingered.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked casually.

“No.”

“I’ll drive you,” he said anyway, like my answer didn’t matter.

I shot him a glare. “I have my own car.”

“I’m aware,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I’m still driving you.”

Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of his sleek black car, wondering how I’d lost this battle without even realizing it had started.

We drove in silence for a while, the morning sun spilling through the windshield. I kept my eyes on the road ahead, but I could feel his gaze on me—steady, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

At a red light, he finally spoke. “You don’t believe me.”

I didn’t look at him. “About what?”

“You know what.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.

I clenched my hands in my lap. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. This was never supposed to be real.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s always been real for me.”

I turned to glare at him, ready to throw back something sharp—but then the light turned green, and he pressed the accelerator, eyes fixed on the road.

He didn’t say another word, but for the rest of the drive, he kept his hand resting on the gear shift… just close enough that if I moved mine an inch, our fingers would touch.

And the worst part? I kept wondering what it would feel like if I did.

.

.

.

I spent the entire morning convincing myself I was right about him.

His little confession last night? Just another move in some elaborate game to keep me off balance. If he actually cared, he would’ve said something years ago. This whatever it was couldn’t be love.

By lunch, I had a plan: keep my distance, keep my head clear, and keep my heart locked up.

I went to a spa and had a great time there. Then I went shopping. I had lived my life plainly for Vaughn. I was living the life of a white lotus in front of him. I pretended to be a weak girl in front of him who needed to be protected. Now I can live my life as I want.

I was walking out of the mall when I saw him leaning against his car in the parking area like some scene from a glossy magazine ad. Dark suit. Sunglasses. The kind of posture that made women passing by slow down just to stare.

“What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?” I demanded, coming to a stop.

“No, I'm just protecting what's mine. What if someone kidnaps you when I'm away.” he said, pushing off the car. “Come. I’d drive you home.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m not coming with you. I can get a cab.”

“You could,” he agreed easily. “But you won’t.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but then a sharp voice called my name.

“Miss Davenport!”

I turned to see Jordan Harper, my enemy whom I hate with every fiber of my body. His grin was thin, the kind people wear when they’re about to twist the knife.

“I heard you ran away from home just to be the one you love. Is he the one? What are you doing here? You came back?” Jordan asked, his gaze locked at my husband.

I stiffened. My personal life was none of his business, but Jordan thrived on gossip, and I could already see the headlines forming in his mind.

Before I could speak, my husband stepped forward, sliding an arm lightly but firmly around my waist.

“No, I'm not the guy she loved. I'm the guy her father chose for her. And we are already married.” he said smoothly, his voice warm but his eyes deadly sharp. “And we are happy together. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Jordan’s smirk faltered. He muttered something and retreated.

The moment he was out of earshot, I turned on him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he said simply. “He was trying to embarrass you.”

I stared at him, caught off guard by the certainty in his tone.

“You didn’t care about the gossip,” I accused. “You just wanted to—”

“Protect you,” he interrupted. “That’s all.”

Something inside me faltered. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He was just… telling the truth.

I hated how much that unsettled me.

When he opened the car door for me, I got in without another word. The drive back was quiet, but not uncomfortable.

And for the first time since the register office, I caught myself wondering, really wondering, what it would be like if our marriage wasn’t just a stunt. Should I really give this marriage a chance as per Knox’s advice?

.

.

.

That night I went to Dad’s study and told him about my revenge plan. I thought he would be mad at me. But to my surprise he told me he will help me take revenge from Vaughn. But he told me to make this marriage work. He understood that when I married him it was just a contract marriage but now he wants me to take it seriously. I didn't have much choice left so I just agreed with him.

I should have known my father would notice.

noticed everything—stock market fluctuations, shifts in political tides, and apparently… the way my husband’s eyes followed me across a room.

It started at dinner two nights later.

We were halfway through the main course when I felt it, that warm, steady weight of his gaze on me. I didn’t look up right away, afraid I’d give something away. But when I finally did, he didn’t glance away like most people would when caught staring. He just held my eyes, one brow slightly lifted, like he was silently daring me to look away first.

My father cleared his throat.

“So,” he said casually, setting down his wine glass, “the two of you seem… close.”

I nearly choked on my water. “Close? No. Not—”

“She’s my wife,” my husband said before I could finish. His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent there, something I couldn’t name but could feel in my bones.

“Yes, well, a piece of paper doesn’t always mean much,” my father replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. “But you… you look at her like she’s more than that.”

My fork froze halfway to my mouth. My pulse was in my ears.

“I look at her,” my husband said slowly, “the way a man should look at the woman he married.”

There was no smirk. No teasing edge. Just raw truth hanging in the air between the three of us.

My father’s gaze flicked to me, sharp and assessing. “And you? Do you look at him the same way?”

I hated how my throat tightened. “We… have an understanding,” I said finally, forcing my voice to stay even.

“Mmm.” My father leaned back, clearly unconvinced. “I’ve seen enough marriages to know when something’s brewing.”

I wanted to deny it. I wanted to roll my eyes and laugh it off. But when I felt my husband’s knee brush against mine under the table, just the lightest, most deliberate touch, I couldn’t move away.

After dinner, as I carried my plate into the kitchen, my father’s voice drifted from the dining room.

“I like him,” he was talking to Mom. “But more than that… I think he likes her. In the way that matters.”

I pressed my back to the wall, my pulse hammering.

Because my father was right. And that terrified me more than anything.