Chapter 11: His Wife In Name Only

POV: IVY

Michael kissed me in front of hundreds of guests, then looked at me as though the moment had been an unpleasant business obligation.

His razor-sharp whisper still echoed in my ears as he pulled his face back from mine. The roar of applause from the cathedral congregation swelled around us, filling the vast stone arches with a triumphant wall of sound. Flashbulbs erupted in a blinding dance of white light, capturing the picture-perfect image of the city’s newest high-society couple.

Michael immediately turned his back to the altar, offering me his arm with practiced, flawless formality. His posture was rigid, his facial expression completely smooth, as if he hadn't just made it crystal clear that I was nothing more than an unwanted line item on his ledger.

I placed my gloved hand over his forearm, forcing my chin up into the tilt Gemma always used, and let him lead me down the aisle.

The reception was held at the Grand Sterling Hotel, a glittering ballroom filled with crystal chandeliers, ice sculptures, and champagne towers. For two straight hours, I was dragged through a labyrinth of corporate titans, board members, and aristocratic relatives.

“You did wonderfully,” Evelyn whispered in my ear as she passed by with a glass of champagne, her eyes sweeping over me with cold approval before she melted back into the crowd of high-society wives.

I smiled, nodded, and answered every question with calculated precision. Every time a board member congratulated us on the merger, Michael responded with smooth, articulate corporate phrases, his arm resting lightly around my waist. But his touch felt like ice. There was no warmth in his palm, no casual glance toward me, no unspoken thread of connection. He was performing a role for the cameras, and he expected me to play my part without causing a scene.

My feet throbbed in Gemma’s high heels, and the tight diamond choker pressed uncomfortably against my throat, hiding the birthmark that proved I was a fraud.

Just as the orchestra began playing a soft valse and the waiters circulated with fresh trays of caviar, the crowd near the grand entrance parted slightly.

A tall, elegant woman stepped into the ballroom.

My breath caught in my throat.

Melanie walked in wearing a floor-length dark red silk gown that clung to her curves, her long dark hair styled in soft waves over one shoulder. She looked stunning, effortless, and entirely confident. She didn't look like a nervous mistress hiding in the shadows; she moved through the room as if she owned the place, casually nodding to several high-profile board members who greeted her by name.

She walked straight toward us, her red heels clicking softly against the marble floor.

Michael didn't move away from me, but I felt his entire frame tense, not with guilt or anxiety, but with an intense, quiet focus.

“Michael,” Melanie said, her voice smooth like velvet as she stepped right up to us. She leaned in without an ounce of hesitation, pressing a soft, intimate kiss against his cheek right in front of three photographers.

Michael didn't pull back. He simply looked down at her, his stormy gray eyes softening by a fraction—a subtle shift that cut through me far deeper than his coldness ever had.

Then, Melanie turned her attention to me. She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on Gemma’s wedding gown before locking onto my eyes.

“Congratulations, Gemma,” Melanie said, offering a sweet, flawless smile that felt like a concealed blade pressing against my ribs. “It was a beautiful ceremony. You must be so proud of this deal.”

This deal. She didn't call it a wedding. She didn't call it a marriage. She framed it as a corporate transaction right to my face, letting me know exactly where I stood in Michael’s life.

I gripped my bouquet tighter, forcing Gemma’s arrogant, dismissive smirk onto my lips. “Thank you, Melanie. It’s wonderful to see that Michael’s acquaintances could make it to celebrate our union.”

Melanie’s smile didn't fade. Her dark eyes glinted with sharp amusement, recognizing the unspoken battle lines drawn between us. She tilted her head slightly, stepping closer to Michael’s side.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” Melanie purred softly. “Michael knows how much I support his commitments.”

Throughout the entire exchange, Michael said nothing to defend me. He didn't set a single boundary. He didn't tell her to back off, nor did he introduce me as his wife with any sense of pride. He simply stood between us like a silent judge, completely indifferent to the psychological warfare playing out under his nose.

By eleven o'clock, the formal reception finally wound down.

My limbs felt like lead, my head throbbing with a dull, persistent migraine from hours of fake smiling and rigid posture. I was utterly exhausted from pretending to be a woman I hated, terrified that one wrong move would expose the truth and tear Grandmother’s medical care away from her.

A sleek, black Maybach pulled up to the private exit at the back of the hotel. A security guard held the rear door open, and Michael stepped aside to let me get in first.

I gathered the heavy white silk train of Gemma’s dress, slid into the plush leather back seat, and moved all the way over to the far side. Michael got in right beside me, closing the door behind him with a solid, heavy thud.

The limousine pulled out onto the quiet, rain-slicked city streets, heading toward his private estate on the outskirts of town.

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Michael unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, leaning his head back against the leather headrest with a long, weary breath. He didn't look at me. He didn't ask how I was feeling or comment on the wedding. The barrier between us felt like a brick wall.

I turned my head to look out the rain-streaked window, staring at the blurred neon lights of the city reflected in the glass. The platinum diamond band on my left ring finger felt heavy, cold, and entirely foreign.

Three years, I reminded myself, tracing the edge of the ring with my thumb. Just survive three years.

Suddenly, the sharp, melodic ring of a mobile phone sliced through the quiet interior of the car.

Michael reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. The bright screen illuminated the dark back seat, lighting up his face.

I glanced sideways.

Prominently displayed on the glowing caller ID was a single word: Melanie.

Without a second of hesitation, without looking at me or offering a single word of apology, Michael swiped the screen and brought the phone straight to his ear.

“Melanie,” he answered, his voice dropping into a tone that was smoother, softer, and far more gentle than anything he had used with me all day. “I’m in the car now.”

I sat beside him in the quiet darkness, wearing his wedding ring, as my new husband spoke to the woman he actually loved.