Chapter 5

Rafael’s POV 

It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since the signing, and I’m already regretting agreeing to the damn press exposure.

I hate these things. Charity galas, ribbon cuttings, fake smiles plastered on painted faces. All of them whispering about money and motives while pretending it’s all about the ‘greater good.’

Tonight, it’s a black-tie benefit for some luxury housing project. Boring. Predictable. And now made worse by the fact that I have to show up hand-in-hand with a woman who looked like she’d rather jump off a bridge than marry me.

Alana is quiet in the car, looking out the window like the city offends her. The silence between us feels heavy, stretched thin like a thread about to snap. I should say something. Maybe even try to make this easier. But I don’t. I just sit back and watch her profile under the dim lights.

She’s wearing a silver satin dress tonight.  It has a cowl neckline and high slit cut perfectly to her body. Her hair is swept up again, leaving her neck bare and taunting. She looks like power. Like a warrior, except instead of armor and a sword, it's an expensive dress and heels. It draws me in.

For someone who claims to hate this arrangement, she looks like a walking fantasy. My eyes traveled up to her high bun, and I briefly wondered what her golden brown hair would look like scattered across my sheets. I shake my head at that thought. I have been having thoughts like this since I met her yesterday.

“Try not to look so miserable,” I say, adjusting my cufflinks. “You’ll ruin the illusion.”

She snorts, not even looking at me. “I’m the illusion.”

The car slows down. Flashing lights and screaming reporters swarm us before the chauffeur even opens the door.

I glance at her. “You ready?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” I respond.

I step out first and offer my hand. She hesitates for a split second, then takes it like it burns her.

The second she’s out, her posture shifts. Her shoulders go back. Her chin lifts. Her eyes stare straight ahead.

Grace under pressure. 

We are the perfect couple. In front of the cameras at least.

I guide her through the flashes and noise, my hand brushing the small of her back. She tenses, then pretends like nothing happened. But I notice. I always notice.

Once we get inside the venue, people begin to turn. News had travelled fast. The D’Angelo heir has arrived, with his surprise fiancée. Every look we get is a mix of curiosity and calculation. Some smiles are genuine, others polite but with thinly veiled judgment hiding underneath.

I lean down and murmur into her ear. “They’re watching you. Smile.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s a cold smile, and for a second… I’m fascinated. She’s really good at giving a perfect public face.

Waiters dressed in habitual black and white walk through the crowd balancing trays holding glasses of champagne. As I take two glasses from one of them, someone tries to corner her for an interview.

 I slide in beside her like a shadow, handing her a glass before draping an arm around her waist and smiling at the intruder.

“Sorry,” I say to the eager host. “She’s with me.”

He walks off barely hiding his disappointment.

Alana stiffens under my touch, but she plays along. Her hand brushes against mine as if by accident. She doesn’t move it.

 “Why did you do that?” She murmurs under her breath, still smiling in case anyone was watching.

I lean into the crook of her neck. “We haven't gotten our stories straight. We can't be talking to anyone right now.”

Later in the evening, we’re ushered onto the stage. A couple of speeches, some photos, and then-

“Rafael D’Angelo and his fiancée Alana Voss,” the announcer says. “Let’s welcome them with a round of applause.”

Applause. Cameras. A spotlight.

I take her hand.

She glares at me with her eyes, but her lips curve just enough for the cameras.

The performance of a lifetime.

I lean in, close enough for the press to whisper. “You’re good at pretending.”

Her smile widens, icy. “Years of practice.”

I inhale deeply and my eyes close briefly at her body scent. She smells like vanilla, not the oud kind, the soft scent that makes you want to lick it. I compose myself quickly before she notices. I wonder what is wrong with me. Why does this lady draw me in this much? 

As the night drags on, I do what I always do. Talk business with people who want to ‘invest’ in the company. I knew most of them were wolves who just wanted to stick their noses around and weren’t actually interested in investing, but I played along.

Alana stays close, a porcelain doll with sharp eyes and sharper silence. We share small talk, whispered jabs, and enough tension to light the room on fire.

She starts to walk toward the balcony for air and I follow two steps behind. Outside, it’s quieter with a cool breeze. Moonlight dances on the marble tiles.

“You could at least pretend to enjoy yourself,” I say lightly.

She turns, arms folded. “I didn’t ask to be paraded like some prize.”

“And yet, you wore silver.” I say, half amused.

She gives me a long look. “Because that’s what Lucia wanted. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no one tells Lucia Voss no.”

We stand in silence. Not peaceful. Not hostile. Just two people stuck in a chess game they never asked to play.

Then, without warning, she shivers slightly.

I shrug off my jacket and drape it around her shoulders. She stares at me, surprised.

“We’re in this together now, Alana.” I say softly.

Her lips part like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she adjusts the jacket slightly and turns back toward the ballroom.

As I follow her inside, one thing becomes crystal clear to me. 

This game might be fake. The marriage might be a contract.

But the heat between us? That’s something neither of us can fake.

And it might be a tad bit difficult to stick to business alone.