CHAPTER 6: FIFTEEN MINUTES

The interview was scheduled for eleven the next morning.

I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw headlines and strangers’ comments calling me a gold digger. When the sky finally lightened, I gave up and sat by the window with a cup of tea I didn’t drink.

Rosa appeared at nine with a makeup artist and a stylist. They worked in silence, transforming me into someone who looked like she belonged on Damien Voss’s arm. Soft makeup. Hair in elegant waves. A cream blouse and tailored black trousers that fit too perfectly. When they finished, I stared at the mirror and felt like a stranger was staring back.

At ten-forty, the elevator chimed.

Damien stepped out in a charcoal suit, already looking like he had won three arguments before breakfast. He stopped when he saw me. His eyes moved from my hair to the rings on my finger, then back to my face.

“Acceptable,” he said.

That was the closest thing to a compliment I had received.

The magazine team arrived five minutes later. Two people only: a journalist named Claire and a photographer who never spoke. They set up near the windows where the city looked most impressive.

Claire smiled too brightly. “Thank you both for making time. We’ll keep this short and respectful.”

Damien sat first, posture perfect. I took the seat beside him. The moment I settled, he reached over and rested his hand over mine on the armrest. His palm was warm. The touch was deliberate, practiced, and empty of affection.

Claire began.

“The world is very curious about how the two of you met.”

Damien answered without hesitation. “Through mutual business connections. We preferred to keep the relationship private until we were certain.”

Claire turned to me. “Ava, what was your first impression of Damien?”

I felt his thumb shift slightly against my hand, a silent warning.

“He was… intense,” I said carefully. “Someone who knows exactly what he wants.”

Claire’s eyes lit up. “And when did you know he was the one?”

The lie sat on my tongue like glass. I forced a soft smile. “When I realized how seriously he takes the people he chooses to protect.”

Damien’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around mine.

The questions continued for twelve more minutes. How we decided on a private ceremony. Whether we planned a larger celebration later. What it felt like to step into such a public life so suddenly. Damien handled most of it. I spoke only when directly addressed, keeping every answer short and polished the way he had instructed.

When Claire finally closed her notebook, she looked genuinely pleased. “This will make a beautiful piece. Thank you both.”

The photographer took a few final shots of us standing together by the window. Damien’s arm settled around my waist. I leaned into him the way a real wife might. The camera clicked. Then it was over.

The moment the elevator doors closed behind them, Damien released me and stepped away.

“You did better than expected,” he said, already loosening his tie.

“I followed the script.”

“That is all I require.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a board meeting in twenty minutes. Stay inside today. The article will go live this evening. Avoid reading the comments.”

He started to leave, then paused.

“Your father’s surgery is confirmed for Tuesday. Rosa will arrange a car if you wish to visit him tomorrow.”

The unexpected mention of my father made my throat tighten. “Thank you.”

Damien gave a short nod, as if gratitude made him uncomfortable, and disappeared into his study.

I stood alone in the living room, the ghost of his hand still warm against my waist. Fifteen minutes of pretending had left me more exhausted than a full day of real work.

That evening the article appeared online.

The photos were elegant. The quotes were clean. The headline read: Damien Voss and the Woman Who Softened the Ice King.

I made the mistake of scrolling the comments.

Some were kind. Most were not.

(She’s pretty enough, I guess.

Another gold digger who got lucky.

Give it six months before the divorce papers.

He looks so bored next to her.)

I locked the phone and set it face down on the nightstand.

Later, long after midnight, I heard the soft sound of the elevator. Footsteps moved down the hallway and stopped outside my door for several seconds. I held my breath, waiting.

The footsteps continued. His study door closed.

I stared at the ceiling until the city lights blurred.

Tomorrow I would visit my father wearing a diamond that still didn’t feel like mine.

On Friday I would walk into a ballroom on the arm of a man who touched me only when cameras were watching.

And somewhere between the lies and the silence, I was starting to forget what my own life had felt like before I signed it away.