Paparazzi

Sera's POV

How could I have been so stupid? Holding a fork like a shovel? Eating with food in my mouth?

Damn it, Seraphina.

I squeezed my eyes shut in the dark room, my face burning with embarrassment. I had been so hungry that I had completely forgotten who I was supposed to be.

Victoria Hale didn't grow up struggling to see good food to eat. She didn't grow up shoving food down her throat because she didn't know where the next meal was coming from.

She was a pampered heiress and must have had etiquette tutors breathing down her neck since she was born, teaching her how to eat like a prim and proper lady.

Of course, Adrian had noticed the stark difference. That man took note every single little detail, nothing went past his notice.

This entire marriage was going to have me walking on thin ice. One more stupid slip like that, and he’d really question who I am.

I sighed. This was getting really tiring.

The morning alarm rang, making me bolt out of the bed.

Time to resume my fake life.

Adrian's voice replayed in my head—Today, you’ll have to play the loving wife. And you better play the part well.

His words kept repeating in my head while I took a hot shower, brushed my teeth, put on a designer floral dress from the wardrobe, carefully applied my makeup, and styled my hair.

I checked my reflection twice, making sure every inch of me looked like the wealthy, polished Victoria Hale.

Before leaving the room, I slid the letter deep into the hidden pocket in my purse. I couldn't leave it lying around and have maybe the room service find it. They'll most likely report it back to Adrian. Nope, I couldn't risk that. One problem at a time.

When I stepped into the hotel lobby, Adrian was already waiting. He wore a made-for-him Italian suit, and a crisp white shirt inside, with the top buttons undone, looking effortlessly like a wealthy billionaire.

My Handsome husband. How Sweet.

“Ready?” he asked, his dark eyes sweeping over me, from my eyes, to my hair, down to the soles of my feet, assessing every single detail.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” I replied.

The moment the heavy glass hotel doors pushed open, the peaceful morning air shattered completely.

A blinding wall of white light erupted in my face.

Cameras clicked rapidly like gunfire, and a roar of loud voices hit us instantly. Dozens of paparazzi and reporters surged forward, held back only by a thin line of hotel security guards.

“Mr Kingsley! Over here!”

“How is your honeymoon in Paris?”

“Look at each other! Give us a smile!”

My body went completely rigid. I stopped dead in my tracks, my throat tightening as the flashing lights blurred my vision. I felt like a deer caught in headlights.

This was so alien to me.

Before I could panic, a broad, warm palm settled firmly on the side of my waist.

Adrian stepped close, his body heat wrapping around me. His fingers gently pulled me right by his side, tucking me neatly under his arm.

Standing so close to him sent a sharp flutter straight to my stomach, completely taking my breath away.

He leaned his head down, his mouth right next to my ear. To the crowd, it looked like a sweet, romantic moment between newlyweds.

“Smile, Victoria,” he instructed softly, his voice smooth and steady against the chaos. “Unless you want the headlines tomorrow saying the new Mrs. Kingsley looks terrified of her own husband.”

I snapped out of my trance, forcing my muscles to relax. I pasted a bright, picture-perfect smile I was sure didn't reach my eyes and looked up at him. “I’m smiling, ‘darling’, “I whispered back through my teeth, putting extra emphasis on the nickname. “Now keep your hand where it belongs before I break your fingers.”

A low, quiet chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Relax, Victoria. This is for the performance. The photographers are eating it up.”

To drive the point home, he slid his hand further around my waist, pulling me even tighter against him as we began walking toward the waiting black limousine. I placed a light, delicate hand on his chest, pretending to laugh at something he said.

We were a masterpiece of deception. The glowing bride and her devoted husband.

“Mr. Kingsley! Mrs. Kingsley! Just one question!” a French reporter yelled, pushing her microphone over the security guard's shoulder.

Adrian paused, keeping his fake, charming smile locked in place for the cameras. “Make it quick.”

“We know the Hale family spent every summer at their private villa in Provence,” the reporter said loudly, her eyes locked on me. “Mrs Kingsley, now that you're back in France, will you be visiting your favorite local bakery, La Maison Rose, like you used to every July with your family?”

My heart stopped instantly.

The smile on my face froze. A wave of ice rushed through my veins. Provence? La Maison Rose? I had never been to France in my entire life before yesterday. I had no idea if that bakery even existed, let alone visit with my family. What family?

My throat was completely dry. The silence stretched for two horrific seconds. The reporter's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing my hesitation.

Camera shutters clicked even faster, capturing my wide, terrified eyes. I was about to blow the whole thing.

Suddenly, Adrian’s grip on my waist tightened gently, drawing all my attention back to him.

He didn't miss a beat. He looked down at me with a soft, affectionate look that seemed so real it almost fooled me.

“Oh, I'm afraid my wife won't have time for Provence this trip,” Adrian said smoothly, turning back to the reporter with effortless grace. “She might love their pastries, but she promised this entire honeymoon belongs to just the two of us in Paris. Didn't you, sweetheart?”

He looked down at me, raising an eyebrow slightly, silently telling me to keep up the act.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to sound light and breezy. “That's right,” I said, leaning into his chest. “Paris has more than enough sweetness to keep us busy. Every single minute is to enjoy our honeymoon.”

Thankfully, that fooled them. The reporters let out a collective awwwn, their cameras flashing like crazy as Adrian safely guided me past the crowd and opened the car door for me. I slid into the leather backseat, and he climbed in right beside me, shutting the heavy door and cutting off the roaring noise outside.

Inside the car, the air instantly turned heavy. I slumped back against the soft leather seat, letting out a long breath, my hands shaking in my lap.

I turned my head to look at Adrian. He was already adjusting his cuffs, his posture straight and calm, his face returning to its usual cool, unreadable mask.

“Thank You” I whispered quietly, my voice genuine for once.

He didn't look turn to look at me. “Thank me for what?”

“You stepped in,” I said, staring at him.

Adrian finally turned his head, his sharp dark eyes searching my face. “Because you looked like you were about to throw up on international television. And as I told you last night, we have an image to maintain.”

He leaned back, resting his arm on the door frame, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studied me.

“Besides, it's strange. A woman who supposedly spent every summer of her childhood in Provence shouldn't look like she just saw a ghost over a simple question about a bakery.”

My chest tightened again. I quickly pressed my lips together and looked out the window at the passing city streets, trying to hide the panic rising in my throat.