Ch 5: Wolves

Ch 4:Wolves.

“Smile,” he murmurs.

“We’re in the wolves’ den now.”

The doors open, and the flashbulbs explode.

I flinch, momentarily blinded. It’s not just bright—it’s assaulting, like someone hurled a thousand paparazzi suns into my face. I blink furiously, the chaotic strobe searing into my retinas like I’ve just stepped onto the red carpet at the Met Gala mid-scandal.

“Mr.Throne can you please introduce your wife?.”

“Mr.Throne when did you meet your wife?.”

“Is this a business plan or love?.”

Cameras, voices, questions—all crashing together like a wave I never asked to stand in front of.

Andrew’s hand is already at the small of my back, steering me forward with the casual control of someone who’s done this too many times to flinch.

My heels click against the marble floor as we enter the gala. It’s confusing—gold-toned gowns, billion-dollar watches, the air thick with money and manipulation. A chandelier glitters above like it’s watching me.

I force my mouth into something that could be called a smile, though it feels more like I have a gun to my head.

I try not to move into him too much.

My ring catches the light—an obnoxiously perfect diamond, impossible to ignore. Exactly what he wanted.

“Good,” Andrew says without looking at me. “They're already watching.”

I exhale shakily my mind veering to the conversation we had this morning.

“Always wear your ring,” he said, not looking up from the folder in front of him.This happened after he had read out the ‘Terms and conditions’ laid out BY him.

“Obviously.” I muttered, studying it on my finger with bewilderment like it wasn’t mine.

“And smile when I say you should. They feed on discomfort.”

“Like reality TV producers?”

He glanced up then,something that could be mistaken as amusement tiger on his face.“Whatever coping mechanism you use against them—your choice.”

—

There’s one thing I’m glad for—I didn’t underestimate this place. But still no amount of preparations can ready a person for the real confrontation.

We haven’t even made it to the center before people begin to swarm—lipstick smiles, shark eyes, hands that reach without asking. Everyone wants a piece of him. And because I’m attached to his arm, they want a piece of me too.

“This must be her.”

“She's stunning.”

“Where have you been hiding this one, Thorne?”

“I thought you didn’t do marriage…”

Andrew deflects the barrage with ease, his expression cold, like he didn’t care enough to form a polite smile. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m standing naked in a hurricane. Everyone’s looking. Everyone’s whispering.

And all I can think is What the hell am I doing here?

It’s only been twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes of smiling, nodding, clutching a champagne glass like my life depended on it. I don’t even drink it—my stomach won’t let me. So, I just hold it.

“I need air,” I whisper to no one in particular when I started feeling like I was going to pass out.

Andrew’s in a conversation with two tall men in tuxedos, his voice low and steady, unreadable. He doesn’t look at me as I drift away, but somehow I know he’s tracking me anyway. He’s been really watching my movements today. Does he think I am going to run away with his expensive ring and designer clothes?

I slip past the crowd, into the corridor near a terrace exit that is cooler, cleaner and doesn’t mind the tension of this evening.I step out into the night, grateful for the breath I’ve been holding since I walked into this gala.

The city sparkles below like it doesn’t know how to rest.

I grip the railing and close my eyes,letting my mind drift to a place of peace.

“Breathe in stardust, breathe out chaos.” I mutter. It was something I did to calm my nerves.

“So you’re the new toy?.” A sharp voice interrupted my thoughts process.

I open my eyes and turn slowly at it’s direction.

She’s tall, model skinny, all angles and elegance. Hair slicked back like a fashion campaign, red lips shaped into a practiced smile. Her dress is a whisper of silk and money. She looked really pretty—like someone who never had to do hard labor at anytime in her life. And she’s looking at me like I am a cockroach that got into a VIP suite.

“You are?” I question, assuming she got the wrong person.

She tilts her head, her eyes drifting from my shoes to my face in distaste. I almost feel the need to step back a bit.

“Celeste Laurent. I’m Andrew’s girlfriend.”

“Oh.” I blink at her, finally understanding. “Should I be sending a condolence card?”

That’s all I could say to her. My brain is too toast to start thinking of how that is even possible.

She steps closer, her heels clicking like a countdown. The smell of her expensive cologne—like money and deceit— blocks my nostrils. “This little game you’re playing? It won’t last. He gets bored quickly, especially with... strays.”

The insult lands, my right shoulders lifts at its impact, my grip tightens on the railing instead.

“Tell me,” she says, eyes narrowing, “did he pick you up from a strip club, or was it more of a ‘pity-the-poor-waitress’ storyline?”

Why is she so mean? Who says that to a person they just met? I mean—I knew rich people could be proud but I didn’t think they’d be this insulting.

I straighten my shoulders, refusing to let her see a reaction from her words.

“Shouldn’t you already know?” I ask, tilting my head. “Since you’re his girlfriend.” The air quotes come out sharper than I intended.

She blinks, but recovers fast. That smug look still hasn’t left her face.

My heart is still racing—but I remember Andrew’s voice this morning, clipped and cold “No one knows about the contract. If anyone questions it—deny.”

She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something else but I have heard enough.

“I don’t care who you were supposed to be,” I say, a little to harsh. “But the end result is…you’re not his wife. I am.”

She blinks, just once. I could tell the statement affected her.

Why did he choose to marry a stray when he already has a girlfriend.

“And I don’t do side conversations with bitter exes in back hallways.” I take a step forward, refusing to back down. “So unless you want me to report harassment to building security—and trust me, I will…stay away.”

Celeste stares at me like she can’t quite believe I dare to talk her like this.

Neither can I. Was I really going to call security? I am not going stick around to find out.

I brush past her walking back inside, legs wobbly, heart thudding like a bass drum in my ears.

“You don’t know him.” She calls back at me. I stand not turning back to face her.

“He is not as perfect as he fakes to be,”she continues with more confidence. “He’s hiding something.”

“And you, my dear,” her voice is anything but sweet. “You are nothing but a disturbing insect in his plan.”

I hear the clapping of her heels walking the the opposite direction from me as she sings like she’s talking to a toddler — loud enough for me to hear. “I can’t wait to see squashed.”

I resume my walk back into the ballroom, my mind wondering what exactly she is ranting about. The nerve of her.

The ballroom feels hotter than before.

Louder. The few minutes break is forgotten in a second as fatigue and tiny black dots begin to cloud my vision.

But then I see him. Andrew Throne.

“Babe…the man you married is a multi billionaire.” I recall Cassidy’s words from earlier this evening, as she help me with my dress. One would think she was joking. But apparently I got married to Andrew Throne. One of the top five richest men in the business world.

CEO of the ThroneTech and the man who’d

created such a buzz at his product lunch last time.

He wasn’t just an eligible bachelor; he was the bachelor.

He was thirty years old, famously married to his work, and up until now, showed no intention of giving up his bachelor lifestyle.

Why then did he marry?

Andrew is still standing near the terrace doors, surrounded by men whose suits probably cost more than I make in a year. They’re older. Powerful.

Faces carved by deals and secrets. One of them actually laughs — low and condescending — I wonder how often people pretend to like one another in rooms like this. The life of the wealthy right?

Andrew doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. He just looks around calculating.

When he spots me, his gaze flicks from my face to my hand—to make sure I’m still wearing the ring—and then back to my face again.

I feel my breath hitch in my throat.

He immediately steps away from the group. Doesn’t excuse himself. Doesn’t explain. Just leaves them standing there, their conversation dying mid-sentence.

He’s walking toward me with rapt attention. Did I do anything wrong?

I steel myself, unsure of what version of him I’m about to get — cold and precise, or unreadable and devastating.

He stops in front of me, eyes scrutinizing my face.

A pause. Then demand—“What happened?"

I raise a brow, forcing a smirk I don’t quite feel. “You didn’t mention anything about your love interest’s territory-marking clause in the contract. Little oversight there, aye?” I lightly brush a nonexistent dent in his suit.

‘Act like we’re in love.’ That’s what he said today. But so far I’ve been the only one smiling and keeping my side of this ‘act’.

Something flickers in his eyes.

He glances over my shoulder, toward the direction I came from —his face expressionless.

Then he looks back at me. The recognition in his eyes telling me that he knew who I was talking about.

Without a word, he lifts his hand and brushes the hair gently from my cheek.

I look away to the ground.

Then lower… his fingers move, cupping around the side of my neck. To hold it in place. It’s not possessive—just there.

His thumb lifts my chin slowly compelling me to look up until our eyes meet — and I’m so aware of our distance. Too close. I can see those dark eyes, intense and unblinking, seeming to see straight through me.

I feel my head get heavy from our proximity—of Him. His scent.

“You are putting on my ring,” his breath fanning my face—low, deep, and steady. “Act like it.”

It takes a while to process what he said but his hand has begin moving from my neck to the small of my back. His touch lingers just a second too long, before i can question it’s intent, it is guiding me.

“Come,” he murmurs beside me again, his voice brushing my skin.

“Let’s meet the men who think they own the world.”

He gestures.

I cross the room, still buzzing as I join him.

“She’s even more stunning in person,” David says, his gaze lingering a beat too long.

Andrew’s hand rests lightly on the small of my back. “Sage,” he says, “this is David Stone—Westland Energy. And Marcus Yoon, CEO of ArcTech.”

David turns first. His gaze slides over me slowly, like he’s enjoying the view. Not crude—worse. Calm. Like someone who does the most wicked things and still donate hugely to charity every month.

Then he smiles, it looks friendly but for some reason it makes the hair on my arms stand.

“Even more stunning in person.”

David Stone. He was on Forbes last year. One of those moody black-and-white covers. Power, legacy, something like that.

But the photo didn’t do his face justice—he looks much older in person. His hairline shrink to the back. His wrinkles that is always hidden by edits.

There’s something about him—like we’ve met—in a way that makes my stomach tighten. Not from the magazine. Not from TV.

Older than that. Deeper.

A hallway? A voice? I couldn’t place my hands on it.

.“Hard to believe,” He grins to Andrew—stuffing his hands in his pockets, his grin too wide, baring his overly big teeth. “Partners for three years and now you’re married.”

Three years? My fingers twitch against my glass. I remember three years ago. With my sister. Her face flashes behind my eyes—messy hair, gold hoops, that stupid denim jacket she loved. And the familiar ache that follows. Yeah…life was almost perfect.

Marcus snorts. “To partnership,” he says, raising his glass. “And to staying on top while the rest choke on the scraps.” I stare at him his words taking me by surprise.

“That was a joke,” he says eyeing me his voice dripping with anything but sincerity.

They laugh—real, ugly laughter. Andrew from beside me doesn’t laugh, he just keeps his stare pinned on them.

He doesn’t need to speak; the weight of his gaze does the talking—and they feel it.

The laughter dies mid-air. David clears his throat, forcing a small, awkward smile, then lifts his glass with a hesitant gesture. “Go on,” he says, nudging theirs. Their glasses touch softly, deliberately, their glasses touch softly, deliberately—but Andrew doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his drink.

The silence left by his refusal presses down on them harder than any words.

I watch as David lifts his drink. The cuff at his wrist shifts, metal catching the light for a fraction of a second. But it wasn’t the glint that made my heart beat three times faster.

It’s the design.

An intricate engraving—a Phoenix rising from ashes.

My breath seizes, because Marcus moves next taking a sip off his glass. And on his cuff, the same Phoenix. The same perfect, twisted wings.

The both of them, same cuff links imprint. An impossible coincidence.

No. Not impossible.

I’ve seen it before.

On the night my sister vanished—the exact same cufflinks she left on her desk in the dorms. The one the police handed back to me in a plastic bag when they said the case had gone cold.

Has the hall always been this tight? The noises from around me were muffled, like cotton stuffed inside my ears. Mouth moved, glasses slipped and smashed somewhere far away, but all I could hear was the thudding of my blood rushing through my body at full speed.

I needed air.

The same year.

The same design.

The same men?

What the hell have I gotten into!?