CHAPTER SIX: HALF TRUTH, HALF LIES

Nightfall – Marceline’s Apartment

As I stepped into the cool embrace of twilight, the sky had already deepened into striking shades of navy and indigo, the vibrant colors swirling together like an artist's palette left to dry too long. The air felt heavier, almost suffocating, as if the very essence of the choices I'd made was clinging to me like an unwelcome shroud, weighing my heart down with every step I took toward home.

With a quiet sigh, I slipped out of my heels, the sharp pain from my arches radiating with relief. It was more than just the shoes, though. My feet, sore from a day spent tiptoeing through a maelstrom of doubt and anxiety, felt like anchors pulling me into the depths of a restless sea. My fingers instinctively sought out the old, familiar pair of worn flip-flops that waited for me by the entrance, comforting and unpretentious. They were my sanctuary amid the chaos of the life I had just stepped back into.

As I pushed open the door, a wave of warmth washed over me, a blend of scents—old wood, cooking spices mingled with hints of laundry detergent—that wrapped around me like a comforting embrace. Home. Yet, despite the familiarity, the comfort did little to ease the tumult brewing at the center of my chest. Not tonight. Not after everything.

I found Jennie in the living room, perched at the edge of the couch like a bird poised to take flight, her posture betraying a mix of anticipation and concern. The moment our eyes met, a spark ignited in her gaze, lighting up her face as if I were the gift she had long been waiting for.

“Good evening, sister,” she greeted with a bright smile, rising to her feet in that exuberant way she always did when masking her own uncertainties. She moved toward me, her arms gracefully reaching for my handbag, lifting it from my shoulder with an almost reverent touch, as if I were a fragile artifact deserving of care. It felt strange, this attention. It felt undeserved. I was about to shatter her expectations.

In response, I nodded, forcing a small smile as I sank onto the couch, my body collapsing as if all the rigidity I had held throughout the day had fallen away, bones weary from pretending I was okay. “Hey,” I murmured, my fingers moving to rub my temples, trying to alleviate the tension that had settled like a vise around my head.

Jennie slid onto the couch beside me, her energy undeterred by my exhaustion. “What do you want to eat for dinner?” she asked, her eagerness spilling over almost too much, a cheerful lilt masking the underlying worry that lay beneath her words.

“I’m fine. I ate at Cora’s place,” I said, the words spilling from my lips like a reflex, not entirely a lie. Sure, I had nibbled on some food, but as it sat in my stomach, it felt less like nourishment and more like a stone of guilt and confusion.

For a brief moment, Jennie’s smile faltered, the subtle crack in her facade barely noticeable, but she recovered too quickly. “Oh,” she said, her fingers twisting a strand of hair behind her ear. “I thought maybe you got employed or something... You came back really late.” Her voice, though soft, carried a sharp edge of curiosity. Hopeful. Probing.

I could feel her gaze on me, intense and unwavering, her eyes glimmering with expectation, like a child eager to unwrap a wrapped gift, desperate for good news. She wanted a victory to cling to, a reason to celebrate. She needed that beacon of hope.

"So tell me," she urged, her voice lowering, infusing the words with a hint of fear, as if my answer might shatter something delicate and precious. "Did you get accepted?"

My heart pounded in my chest as I blinked, the words tangling in my throat. What could I say? 'Yes, Jennie. I landed a job as a fake wife to one of the most powerful men in the city. Oh, and I signed away my dignity in a legally binding contract.' Oh, how well that would go over.

My throat tightened, and my mind churned, racing through every possible way to package it gently. The truth hung heavy and jagged, and I struggled to find a way to convey it without the edges cutting deep.

“I... I got a job,” I finally said, my voice emerging surprisingly steady, even though my insides churned in a chaotic dance of anxiety. “But it’s different from what we expected.”

There it was—a half-truth, a technical accuracy wrapped in a veil of deception. And yet the weight of that truth felt like a lead weight against my conscience.

Jennie’s face lit up instantly, her joy flooding the space between us. “Oh my God, Marcy, that’s amazing!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in that infectious way she did whenever she truly felt happiness. “What kind of job? When do you start? Tell me everything!”

Each question felt like a dagger, twisting in my gut. I fought to keep a smile on my face, though inside, I feared she couldn’t see the turmoil churned up beneath the surface—how her enthusiasm felt like a double-edged sword. “It’s... kind of complicated,” I replied slowly, carefully selecting my words. “I’ll explain later. I’m really tired right now.”

Her smile dimmed, slightly but palpably, like a candle flickering in the wind. “Oh,” she nodded, her understanding tinged with disappointment. “Yeah, of course. I’m just happy for you, that’s all. I knew something good would come your way.”

Her unwavering faith in me struck me like a blow to the heart. It felt like a betrayal of the truth. I didn’t deserve her hope—not when I was harboring a secret so immense it felt as though it were pushing my ribs apart.

Suddenly overwhelmed, I stood up, the walls of the room seeming to close in around me. “How’s Mom?” I asked, desperately needing to shift the focus away from myself, the urgency for air gnawing at my throat.

“She’s already asleep,” Jennie replied gently, her voice carrying the softness of a night that promised solace.

“Okay. Good night,” I mumbled, already halfway up the staircase, escape beckoning me forward. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Good night,” she called softly behind me, her words trailing like a gentle caress.

As I ascended the stairs, the silence enveloped me, the morose weight of my choices nipping at my heels. Each step felt like a burden, pressing heavily against my chest. The magnitude of what I had done was suffocating. I had just entered into a contract that tethered me to a complete stranger— a billionaire whose name resonated through headlines like a thunderclap. His cold eyes haunted me, and the memory of his presence lingered, intoxicating yet terrifying, as if he could devour me whole with a single glance.

Mrs. Dejeva. The title echoed in my mind, a cruel joke turned reality. I wasn’t anyone’s wife—not really. This was nothing more than a theater production, a performance where the script was written in shades of deception and silk, couched in diamond rings that promised everything but love.

And yet, the fear that gripped me was real enough to make me feel like I was losing pieces of myself already.

Closing the door to my bedroom behind me, I leaned against it for a moment, savoring the solitude that enveloped me like a shroud. My room looked the same as it always had—soft lighting casting gentle shadows, pale curtains framing the window, and the stack of books that taunted me with their promises of adventure and escape—but everything within me had shifted. It felt as if my very soul had twisted two inches to the left, throwing everything I knew into disarray.

I perched on the edge of my bed, staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My face appeared the same as ever—perhaps a touch more haggard, my eyes wide and brimming with an unsettling mix of fear and uncertainty. Yet beneath that familiar surface, a tempest was brewing, ready to unfurl.

What have I done?

I thought of Cross. His cold, calculating eyes lingered in my thoughts, his voice slicing through the air like a knife. Every word he spoke dripped with an unsettling confidence, as if he were orchestrating a game where I was merely a pawn, always five moves ahead. He was a hurricane, consuming everything in his path, and I was merely a leaf in the storm, terrified of being swept away.