Chapter 3

Elena

I TRIED. God knows I had tried.

Every morning, I rose before the sun did, hoping that maybe effort, consistency, or some semblance of warmth might soften the ice between us. I wasn’t exactly a skilled cook, but I researched, watched tutorials, and burned more pancakes than I cared to admit. I tried new recipes like they were spells that might break the silence. Coffee brewed fresh, just the way I thought he might like it. Toast, eggs, avocado. Clean, presentable, arranged with care on a pristine plate.

But every time he walked into the kitchen, Julian barely looked at it.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’ll eat at the office.”

Or worse, “I don’t want anything that has… that.”

He never explained what that meant. My cooking? My effort? Me?

And when the door closed behind him. I stood in the kitchen with two full plates and a stomach full of hurt. I washed the dishes in silence, like scrubbing hard enough might erase how foolish I felt.

Still, I tried again the next day.

And the next.

Dinner followed the same rhythm. I’d cook enough for two, light a candle or two, set the table with quiet hope. I even stopped asking about his day because the silence after my questions felt worse than the absence of them. He rarely showed. And when he did, he gave a short glance at the food, said something about a meeting, and disappeared down the hall.

I wasn't asking for love, for romance. Just friendship.

If we couldn’t have the rest, maybe we could at least be decent to each other.

But civility requires effort from both sides. I was the only one trying.

I didn’t cry about it, not loudly, anyway. I’d grown up swallowing disappointment like vitamins. My father taught me that tears were only useful if they could buy sympathy or leverage, and Julian didn’t seem capable of either. So I smiled through it. Ate alone. Pretended the distance didn’t make my bones ache.

I had married a stranger who made me feel invisible.

ONE EVENING, Julian miraculously went home early.

I was sitting on the living room couch, my laptop open, though I hadn’t been working on anything real. Just pretending. Pretending I had something to do, somewhere to be, someone to be, other than a woman living in a glass cage.

He walked in quietly, his steps smooth and deliberate. I glanced up, surprised he hadn’t vanished into his study like usual.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t even look at me.

“We need to attend the Bergman Gala next week,” he said.

I blinked. “The gala?”

“It’s an annual business event. Media, shareholders, family connections. It’s part of the contract.”

Of course it was.

I sat up straighter. “What exactly are we supposed to do there?”

Julian’s eyes met mine then, cool and steady. “Smile. Stand beside me. Look like we’re happy.”

I swallowed hard. “Pretend, you mean.”

His jaw flexed once. “It’s what you signed up for, Elena.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Like a slap cloaked in politeness. But I nodded. Because what else was I supposed to do? Argue? Demand warmth from a man who clearly didn’t want me?

He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “Wear something appropriate.”

I waited until I was alone again before I let my shoulders slump.

It was always like this. He dropped words like orders, and disappeared before I could breathe a reply.

The gala.

I’d heard of it before. The Bergman Gala was a social event masked as a charitable function. CEOs, billionaires, oil magnates, and old-money royalty all gathered in one ballroom under chandeliers that cost more than my old apartment. My father would be there, shaking hands, flashing his signature grin, acting like he hadn’t sabotaged my art career or married me off like I was another acquisition.

Julian would be there too, of course. Shining in his element. Tall, untouchable. Probably charming in public the way he refused to be in private.

And me?

I’d be a prop. A shiny thing on his arm, smiling like I hadn’t been sleeping next to silence for weeks.

I stood and walked toward the closet. It was filled with clothes I hadn’t chosen, couture dresses in pristine garment bags, labeled by occasion. I wasn’t even sure if they were bought for me or just part of some image package curated by Julian’s assistant.

I ran my fingers across them, stopping at one that caught my eye. Black silk, minimal embellishment, elegant. Classic. It didn’t scream for attention, but it commanded space. It felt... like armor.

I set it aside.

If I was going to be dragged into this spectacle, I wasn’t going to shrink.

OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I didn’t bring up the gala. Julian didn’t mention it again, either. We returned to our routines—me cooking meals he wouldn’t touch, him ignoring my presence like it was part of the decor.

Sometimes, I thought about not going.

But a small, stubborn part of me refused to give up completely.

Not because I believed in happy endings anymore.

But because I needed to know who I was when all of this was stripped away, when the lights were bright, the cameras were flashing, and I was forced to smile beside a man who barely acknowledged I existed.

I wanted to see what kind of woman I could be when standing in the middle of everything fake.

Maybe it would show me who I really was underneath.

Maybe I’d surprise myself.