All Eyes On Us

The following morning, Frederick sent for Amelia in his home office. Frederick didn’t ask if she wanted to attend the gala. He just told her. “You’ll need to be ready by seven. Car leaves at seven-thirty.”

Amelia stared at him. “What kind of event is it?”

“Charity. Press. Investors. A chance to be seen.”

She blinked slowly. “That’s a lot of people to lie to.”

He didn’t flinch. “It’s part of the job.”

She wanted to argue, but it felt pointless. The contract didn’t promise comfort—it promised visibility. Control. Appearances. So she nodded and went back to pretending this was still her choice.

The dress was delivered around noon, hung neatly on her bedroom door with a note in handwriting that wasn’t his. Classic black. Floor length. High thigh slit. Elegant enough to belong to someone with a family name carved into buildings. She stared at it for a full minute before touching it.

By evening, she’d convinced herself she could do this. Smile, nod, play the part. She’d done harder things. She’d held bleeding hearts in her hands. But when she stepped into the living room and saw him standing by the window in a black suit, tailored within an inch of control, the air shifted.

He turned slowly when he heard her heels. His eyes moved over her, carefully, quietly. His breath hitched and he swallowed.

She expected a comment. He gave her silence instead.

“Is this when you pretend to be stunned?” she said.

“No,” he replied. “That would’ve been a lie.”

She almost smiled at that, but didn’t give him the satisfaction.

The ride to the venue was quiet. The car smelled like leather and something expensive. He sat beside her, too close and too far all at once. She kept her hands in her lap. He didn’t look at her until they were two blocks away.

“There will be questions,” he said.

“I’m good at answers.”

He paused, then added, “Stay close to me."

The venue was all glass and stone, lit like a stage. They walked in hand-in-hand, her fingers thrummed against his suit. Cameras clicked. Lights flashed. Voices rose. She didn’t falter. If anything, she straightened.

Inside, everything shimmered. People turned when they entered. Some smiled, others stared. She caught whispers behind champagne glasses—her name passed between mouths that didn’t belong to friends.

Frederick guided her from group to group, introducing her as “the one I got lucky enough to convince.” His voice was smooth, casual, too practiced. She smiled when expected. She held his arm when prompted. The woman beside him wasn’t the one she was hours ago in sweatpants and a bun. This version had posture and polish. But her spine ached with it.

He leaned in once, between conversations. “You’re doing well.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

She hated how that pleased her.

They danced once and just because someone asked, and refusing would’ve looked suspicious. His hand was firm on her back. They didn’t talk while the music played. She looked past his shoulder, focused on the chandelier. When the song ended, he didn’t let go immediately.

She had never been close to him before. His body heat spread through her as they stood. He firmed his grip on her back and he dropped his head into her neck. Slowly, the music began again. With his head in her neck, she could not breathe for fear of the thing in her chest bursting. This was fake and he is a good actor, that's all.

The dance stretched on for another five minutes before she cleared her throat.

"I have to use the bathroom." He didn't let go immediately.

Their eyes met immediately and she felt her heart tug. she slipped away to the restroom just to breathe. Her reflection looked like someone she wasn’t sure she wanted to become. She fixed her lipstick anyway.

When she came back, Frederick was talking to a man she didn’t recognize—gray suit, tired smile. He turned to her when she approached.

“So this is the fiancée,” the man said. “Didn’t think you’d go for someone with dirt under her nails.”

Amelia blinked. Frederick’s jaw twitched.

“Emergency medicine,” she said calmly. “I prefer blood to boredom.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Sharp one.”

She smiled. “Scalpels tend to be.”

Frederick placed a hand on her back. A warning. Or maybe a thank-you.

"A bit surprising we're only hearing of a fiancée now that your 31st is approaching and she...well she's not..."

"Charles, I'd appreciate if you don't insinuate anything about my fiancé. Good night." With his hand still on Amelia's back, he led her away.

When they got home, neither of them spoke on the ride up. The silence felt thicker than it had the night before. She was still wearing the dress when she walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. He followed, loose tie, no jacket.

“You didn’t have to defend me,” he said.

“I didn’t. I defended myself.”

He nodded. “Same thing tonight.”

She set the glass down and leaned against the counter. “Do they all think I’m temporary?”

“They know you are.”

She didn’t answer. That felt like a sting. No, a reminder of what this was and that she had gotten way ahead of herself.

He looked at her like he wanted to say more. Instead, he walked past her, stopped near the hallway, then turned back.

“You were right earlier.”

“About what?”

“You don’t lie well. But you perform better than most people I know.”

She watched him disappear down the hall, unsure if it was a compliment or a warning.

She changed slowly, showered, peeled away the version of herself she’d worn all evening. When she entered her room, she noticed something resting on her pillow.

A folded piece of paper.

No envelope. No handwriting on the outside.

She unfolded it with steady hands.

Four words.

You’re not welcome here.

She sat down, holding the note like it might burn through her fingers.

She didn’t sleep.