Chapter 5: Underneath the Surface

Work was my refuge.

No matter how twisted my life had become in the span of a few days, the hum of computers, the clack of keyboards, and the familiar aroma of burnt coffee in the AV Tech design department always gave me a strange sense of peace.

Here, I wasn’t a secretly married royal heiress.

Here, I was just Valerie Vale — a dedicated team leader with messy hair, paper cuts, and too many browser tabs open.

“Val, the rendering’s glitching again,” Lianne called, half-laughing, half-panicking.

I rolled my chair toward her desk, scooting like a woman on a mission. “What did I say about ignoring viewport orientation, huh?” I teased, clicking away at her screen. “Coffee. I told you. You need your coffee.”

She let out a sheepish laugh as the file corrected itself. And just like that, we were back to normal.

If only the rest of my life were this easy to fix.

Twelve floors above me, the new company director — and my new husband — was probably managing stock growth, merger timelines, and international accounts like a royal-born robot.

Leon Albourne. Or should I say, my husband. Still couldn’t say that without my stomach doing a weird backflip.

Cold, sophisticated, brilliant, and adored by nearly every woman in the country — and yet, he didn’t even look at me unless absolutely necessary.

We shared a roof, but not a life.

And oddly… I was okay with that.

I didn’t want the drama or the emotional strain. This marriage, no matter how ridiculous, still gave me a sense of freedom. No one knew. I could still be me. I had control.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

Dinner that night was at the Rosemont Mansion.

The long dining table glittered beneath chandeliers, surrounded by warm smiles and too many silver forks. Our parents were already laughing as I entered, and I swear I saw my grandma’s earrings sparkle every time she threw her head back.

I took a seat directly across from Leon. Of course. Where else?

He looked perfect as always — crisp black button-up, wristwatch gleaming, posture so straight it probably had its own discipline.

He glanced at me once. Blinked.

And that was it.

No “hello,” no “you look nice,” no warmth. Just… the usual stoic glacier.

“You look a little pale, darling,” my mom whispered beside me. “Are you eating well?”

“Of course. I have a job and a fridge. Don’t worry,” I said with a smile.

Dad poured some wine into my glass, and I sipped it as conversation swirled around us. They were discussing business — expansions, mergers, new market trends. Leon occasionally added something sharp and intelligent, which earned proud nods from both sets of parents.

I just kept sipping.

Then my father cleared his throat and said the words that made me choke on my wine.

“So, how’s married life treating you both?”

I coughed violently, grabbing my napkin.

Leon didn’t even flinch.

Everyone turned toward us. It was like someone pressed pause on the whole world.

“Oh… peaceful?” I said, voice an octave too high. “Leon is… uh, quiet. Very efficient.”

That earned a round of knowing chuckles.

“Still waters, deep love,” my mom said with a wink.

Grandma clapped her hands. “I’m just waiting for a great-grandchild already! You’re both young, healthy — surely something’s on the way?”

I nearly spat out my drink again.

Oh my god.

Leon finally moved — lifted his glass slowly and took a sip like none of this was being discussed. Like they weren’t just casually mentioning making babies at the dinner table.

“Excuse me,” I said, shooting up from my seat. “I just need the bathroom.”

The moment I stepped inside the grand powder room, I let out a groan and stared at myself in the mirror.

Great-grandchildren?

I was barely processing the fact that I was married. Married to a man who barely acknowledged me unless required. A man who I couldn’t even read. A man who confused me more with every passing day.

I splashed water on my face, trying to will the red out of my cheeks.

Then I walked out.

And nearly jumped out of my skin.

Leon was waiting right outside the door, leaning casually against the hallway’s marble pillar like he owned the entire country.

Maybe he did.

His hands were in his pockets. His expression unreadable. As always.

“What… are you doing here?” I asked, trying not to sound breathless.

“You were gone too long.”

I blinked. “So you timed my bathroom break now?”

“I didn’t say I cared. Just making an observation.”

I stared at him.

Was he serious?

Before I could respond, a group of young elite heirs passed by us — tall, well-dressed, slightly drunk, and full of the arrogance money breeds too young. One of them slowed as he saw me.

“Well, hello,” he said, eyes sweeping me from head to toe like I was on a menu. “Didn’t know Rosemont had started hosting angels.”

I stiffened. My hand curled into a fist, but I stayed calm.

Leon didn’t speak. He didn’t even move.

But I felt it. The subtle tension rolling off him.

His eyes followed the men as they passed, dark and calculating.

Then he turned to me.

His voice was smooth. “Too bad. You won’t be able to enjoy that kind of attention anymore.”

I raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re married now,” he said. “You’re no longer available for that kind of thrill.”

I scoffed. “Trust me. I’m not the unlucky one here.”

His gaze sharpened. “Aren’t you?”

I crossed my arms. “No offense, but this whole thing is basically a corporate partnership in royal wrapping. The only real upside is that I don’t have to love you.”

There. I said it.

His jaw didn’t move, but something shifted in the air.

“I mean,” I continued, half-laughing, “when it ends, I can actually go find someone who wants me. Who looks at me like I’m more than just—”

“Than just what?” he asked. Still calm. Still cold.

“Than just a duty,” I whispered. “I might actually get to fall in love. Divorce might be the happiest ending.”

The silence was deafening.

Then, in a single step, he closed the distance between us.

His hand wrapped around my wrist — gently, but firmly — pulling me close. His breath brushed against my ear.

“You want a man to look at you like he wants you?”

I couldn’t breathe.

His voice was low, velvet over ice. “You want pleasure, Valerie?”

My heart pounded. I didn’t know what to say.

His hand stayed on my wrist. Warm. Strong. Too careful to be casual.

Then he let go.

Just like that.

Expressionless again, he stepped back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.

“Don’t provoke me next time,” he said coolly. “You won’t like how I respond.”

And he walked away.

Calm. Composed.

Leaving me with a pulse racing out of control and a question I didn’t want to ask myself:

What would happen if I did provoke him… again?