CHAPTER FOUR

Mira's P.O.V

The first week after the wedding passed in a strange, dreamlike blur. Not a dream in the sense of bliss or beauty, but in the sense of drifting through moments I couldn’t quite hold onto. My new title WIFE hung around my neck like an expensive necklace I never asked to wear.

The house was quiet most days. Luca spent hours on calls in his office, speaking in clipped tones about stock projections, acquisitions, media damage control. I spent mine wandering the halls, watching the shadows shift across the hardwood floors, waiting for my body to tell me something new about the life growing inside me.

Sometimes, he would knock on my door and leave small things. A book he thought I’d like. My favorite pastries no coffee, of course. A soft scarf because it had rained the night before. But he rarely stayed to talk.

We were like two ghosts passing through the same space, tethered by an invisible line neither of us dared to tug.

On the third morning, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, studying my reflection. My face looked the same, but my eyes didn’t. They looked older. Or maybe just… tired of pretending.

I traced the faint curve of my stomach beneath the oversized sweater. The baby was still small, barely there. But I felt it. Every flutter, every strange twist of nausea. Every heartbeat that wasn’t mine reminded me why I was here.

Not for Luca. Not for protection.

For this child.

But there were moments dangerous, fragile moments when I looked at him and felt something shift.

Like when he poured me tea without asking how I liked it because he remembered. Or when he covered me with a blanket after I fell asleep on the couch, thinking I didn’t notice.

He never touched me.

But he lingered. In the way his gaze softened when he thought I wasn’t looking. In the way his footsteps slowed outside my door.

He was trying. In his own quiet, broken way.

And I didn’t know whether to let him in or run.

By the second week, I needed air.

Not just from the house. From everything.

I told Luca I wanted to go for a walk alone. He hesitated then nodded, offering me the car and a driver. I refused both.

“I just want a few blocks,” I said. “Fresh air. On my own terms.”

He didn’t argue. He only said, "Be careful."

The city felt different now. Heavier. Like eyes were everywhere.

I kept my head down, wore a cap and sunglasses, walked through quieter streets. Bought an overpriced smoothie from a café that didn’t recognize me. Sat on a park bench and let the wind play with the ends of my scarf.

For the first time in days, I breathed.

I didn’t notice the camera.

Not until the next morning.

I was halfway through slicing fruit in the kitchen when Luca walked in, holding his phone like it was burning.

He placed it on the counter in front of me.

A headline blinked back at me:

MYSTERY BRIDE ALREADY OUT ALONE? IS THERE TROUBLE IN DE SILVA MARRIAGE?

Beneath it was a photo.

Me. Sitting alone. Holding my stomach. Looking tired. Vulnerable.

I stared at it, the knife still in my hand.

"I didn’t know anyone saw me," I whispered.

Luca didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, "You said you needed space. I gave it to you."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

I looked up. "Are you mad?"

"I’m not mad you went out. I’m mad that this" he pointed to the screen" is going to be spun into a dozen different stories before noon."

"So now I can’t even walk outside?"

"Not without being watched. This is the world I live in, Mira. The one I tried to warn you about."

"I didn’t ask for this world," I snapped.

"No," he said, eyes narrowing. "But you walked into it."

We stared at each other, tension thick and sharp.

"This isn’t a marriage," I said, stepping back. "It’s a contract I’m surviving."

His expression flickered.

"Do you regret it?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"I don’t know," I whispered.

He didn’t respond. Just turned and left the room.

The silence between us grew heavier after that.

We still shared space. Still passed each other in the hallway. Still spoke when necessary.

But it felt different.

Colder.

Like something had cracked and neither of us knew how to fix it.

I spent more time in the garden. The one place that felt untouched.

Some nights I stayed up late, just to hear the quiet.

One of those nights, I found Luca on the balcony, staring out at the city lights.

He didn’t look at me when I stepped beside him.

"You’re not the only one trying to survive this, Mira," he said quietly.

I swallowed hard. "What are you surviving from, Luca?"

He was silent for a long time.

Then he said, "Love, mostly."

I turned to him.

"What happened to you?"

His jaw tightened. "That’s a story for another night."

And just like that, he walked away again.

But the question stayed.

Three days later, I received the message.

I was curled up on the living room couch, trying to read, when my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

He’s not who you think he is. Ask him about Cassandra.

My fingers went cold.

My heart pounded.

I reread the message three times, hoping it would change.

But it didn’t.

And somewhere, deep in my chest, a fear began to bloom.

Who was Cassandra?

And what was Luca hiding from me?