The Gala and the Lie

The red dress felt like armor. And a lie.

I stood in front of the mirror in the car, staring at the woman looking back at me. Diamonds at my neck. Silk on my skin. Damian Harrison’s wife.

Fake wife, I reminded myself.

The charity gala was at the Harrison Tower. Crystal chandeliers. Million-dollar paintings. People who had never worried about hospital bills in their lives.

I pushed Damian's wheelchair through the entrance. My hands were shaking on the handles. Not from weight but from fear.

The second we crossed the doors, every head turned.

"Mr. Harrison," people said. "Congratulations on the marriage."

Damian nodded. Once. His face was carved from stone.

“Smile,” he murmured to me, low enough for only me to hear, “You’re Mrs. Harrison tonight.”

So I smiled. God, I smiled until my cheeks hurt.

I laughed at jokes I didn’t hear. I shook hands with women wearing more money on their fingers than I made in a year.

I let cameras flash in my face.

Like the perfect wife. Like I was in a happy marriage.

Behind me, I heard people whispering vaguely. "Isn't she the secretary?" "The one who got promoted to be his wife?" "Gold digger"

The words cut deeper than i wanted to admit.

I glanced down at Damian. He was staring straight ahead. His jaw was clenched. But he didn't react. Didn't defend me.

Of course not, I thought. This is a contract.

The night dragged on. Champagne I didn't drink. Small talk that felt like knives.

And then the music stopped.

“Damian.”

The voice was soft. Familiar. Poison.

The whole room seemed to hold its breath.

I turned.

Rachel Moore.

White dress. Perfect hair. Perfect smile.

She looked like she was cut from the same world as these people. Same world as Damian. Elegant. Rich. Untouchable.

And eyes that looked right through me like I wasn’t even there.

Damian’s hands gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. For one second, I saw his knuckles go white.

“Rachel,” he said. His voice had no emotion. “What are you doing here?”

Rachel’s eyes finally landed on me. She looked me up and down. Slowly. Like she was pricing me. Like she was disappointed in the price.

“Oh,” she said with a fake gasp. “You got married.”

She stepped closer. Too close. Her perfume smelled expensive. Like pity.

“And to her,” Rachel said, and laughed. A soft, cruel laugh that made my skin crawl. “Damian… really? A contract wife? After everything we went through?”

My heart stopped.

Contract wife.

How did she know?

I looked down at Damian. Begging him with my eyes to deny it. To defend me. To say something.

But his face was stone. His jaw was clenched so tight I thought it would break.

He didn’t say anything.

The silence was deafening.

People were staring. Whispering. Phones were coming out.

Rachel smiled wider. She leaned down, like she was talking to a child. Or a cripple.

“I heard about the accident, you know. When you were in that… chair," She said the last word like it was dirty. "I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you. It must have been so hard. For both of us.”

Chair.

The word hit me like a slap.

I finally understood.

This was the woman who left him when he was in a wheelchair.

The woman who broke him and walked away when he needed her the most.

And now she was here, in front of his fake wife, acting like she still had the right to hurt him. Like she still owned him.

Rage boiled in my chest. Hot and sudden.

My hands were shaking. But not from fear.

From anger.

It was probably a bad idea. But the adrenaline and the anger toward Rachel pushed me to do it.

I dropped to my knees in front of Damian. My red dress pooled around me. The room gasped.

I took his face in my hands. His skin was cold. Then I sat on his lap.

And I kissed him.

His hands placed automatically on my hips like they belonged there, and I felt a shiver down my spine.

The scent of his aftershave filled my nostrils. Clean. Expensive. Possessive. Like he was marking me.

The whole world went silent.

I pulled back, breathing hard. My lips were tingling.

Damian stared at me. His dark eyes were wide. Shocked. His hands were still on my hips, like he forgot to let go.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then slowly, his jaw tightened. And he pulled me closer, one arm wrapping around my waist like I belonged there.

“Yes,” he said, his voice low and rough against my ear. “We are very happy.”

Rachel’s smile dropped. Her face went pale.

And behind her, a photographer lifted his camera.

Click.