Chapter 4

Zara sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the closet, unsure of what to wear. The fight with Adrian earlier still stung. His sharp words replayed in her head, each one cutting deeper than the last.

A knock sounded on the door before she could collect herself. Isabella stepped in, her phone in hand, her expression soft with concern.

She had seen the clash between her brother and his new wife. She expected to find Zara crying, broken, maybe even begging for comfort.

But Zara looked up, a smirk tugging at her lips, and said, “Oh, perfect timing. I need your help. Tell me, which dress do you think will make your brother a little less grumpy, less rude, and maybe just maybe a tiny bit less impossible?”

Isabella blinked, then burst out laughing. “Wow. I was ready to hand you tissues, not hear you roast him.”

“Well,” Zara said, standing and pulling her toward the closet, “I figure if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. And I refuse to give that man the satisfaction.”

The two of them began tossing dresses around. Isabella shook her head in disbelief, giggling as Zara muttered under her breath, “Grumpy boss. Rude tyrant. Impossible human. I should just show up in pajamas and call it a day.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Isabella teased.

“Wouldn’t I?” Zara raised a brow. “Imagine his face if I walked into that ballroom in fuzzy slippers. Honestly, it might be the first time I make him speechless.”

They both laughed so hard they nearly toppled onto the bed.

At last, Isabella held up a gown the color of burning embers. “This one. Wear this. It’ll shut him up faster than a boardroom deal.”

Zara wriggled into it, though the zipper was stubborn. After some tugging and pulling, the two managed to get it closed. The dress hugged her like it had been made for her.

“There,” Isabella declared. “You look amazing. He’ll choke on his own words.”

“Let’s hope,” Zara murmured.

“By the way,” Isabella added with a grin, “those pancakes you made this morning? I devoured every last one. You have to teach me.”

“Glad someone in this house appreciates me,” Zara muttered, rolling her eyes playfully.

They laughed again, and for a brief moment, the weight of Adrian’s harshness faded. Zara almost felt normal like she had a sister on her side.

But when Zara disappeared into the bathroom to freshen up, Isabella’s phone rang. It was her mother, her voice sharp with urgency. “Come home right now. We need to talk.”

“I’ll be quick,” Isabella promised, whispering through the bathroom door, “I’ll be back before you’re dressed.”

The shower was loud. Zara heard nothing.

When she stepped out minutes later, steam still curling around her, Isabella was gone. She looked around, waiting, but her chest tightened with unease. The dress zipper stuck again. No matter how she twisted or pulled, it wouldn’t move.

Her breath quickened. Her hands shook. She needed help just as the door opened.

Adrian.

He filled the doorway like a shadow, sleeves rolled up, his silver-gray eyes as sharp as a blade. His gaze swept over her struggling form, unimpressed.

Without asking, he stepped forward. His hands were strong, controlledlanded on her shoulders and waist. She froze at the sudden closeness. In one smooth tug, he pulled the zipper into place.

“You could have chosen something easier,” he said flatly. “But no. You always reach for what doesn’t belong to you.”

Zara’s chest tightened, the sting of his words sharper than the zip itself.

“And listen carefully,” Adrian continued, his voice low and merciless. “Tonight isn’t about you. One wrong step, one nervous laugh, one slip of the tongue and you’ll make me regret this entire arrangement.”

Her throat was dry. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

His lips curved, not in kindness, but in mockery. “Good girl. But trembling won’t save you.”

The ride to the gala was thick with silence. Zara sat in the backseat, hands pressed tightly in her lap, staring out the window. Each glowing billboard and glittering tower reminded her how far she was from the simple life she once knew.

Beside her, Adrian sat straight, his jaw locked, his presence overwhelming.

She stole a glance at him, then muttered under her breath, “Stone statue… grumpy king… professional brooder.”

His head turned sharply. “What was that?”

Zara gave him her most innocent smile. “Nothing. Just… practicing small talk.”

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more.

When they arrived, the red carpet blazed under the camera flashes. The moment Adrian stepped out, the crowd stirred. Photographers leaned forward, lenses clicking, their voices calling his name.

Zara hesitated before taking his hand. His grip was firm, almost punishing, as he helped her out. For one heartbeat, she considered yanking her hand back. But then Adrian leaned close and whispered, low enough for only her to hear:

“Don’t forget. One slip, and you’ll remind everyone you’re just a replacement.”

Her chest clenched. Still, she placed her arm through his, forcing a smile as they walked forward. To the crowd, they looked like a perfect couple. To Zara, it felt like chains disguised as lace and velvet.

Inside, chandeliers glowed like falling stars. Elegant couples mingled, their laughter sharp and rehearsed. Adrian guided her through the throng, introducing her as his wife with flawless precision.

Some guests smiled warmly. Others raised their brows, calculating, curious.

“You two,” one woman gushed, “look like a pair made in heaven.”

Zara’s cheeks ached from her polite smile. Before she could respond, Adrian leaned toward her ear, his whisper cold enough to chill her spine.

“That’s not true. And we both know it.”

Her nails dug into her palm, but her smile never wavered. If he wanted her to break, she refused to give him the pleasure.

The evening blurred into handshakes, forced laughter, and Adrian’s quiet tests. A sharp question about a painting. A comment meant to trip her up in front of a group. Each time, Zara’s mind raced. She stumbled once or twice, but she adapted quickly, surprising herself.

And though Adrian’s face remained carved from stone, something flickered in his eyes something unreadable.