Not in his World

Alexander chuckled, holding up his hands in a gesture of playful surrender. “My apologies, Elera. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His smile was wide, charming, and utterly disarming. “I was just at the Verge Lounge—you know it, over on 5th?”

“The club?” I asked, my voice sounding too small in the vaulted silence of the portico.

“Of course! The whole place is buzzing about you two. A honeymoon, I had to swing by and offer my congratulations in person.”

He stepped fully into the light, looking genuinely delighted. In the stark glare of the entrance lights, I could see the family resemblance—the same strong jaw, the same intense dark eyes as Adrian. But where Adrian’s gaze was a stormy sea, Alexander’s was a sunlit, shallow pond. Beautiful, but you could see straight to the bottom. And the bottom was all polished stone.

“You both looked spectacular tonight, by the way,” he continued, his gaze warm and appreciative, lingering on me just a beat too long to be polite. “Elera, that emerald dress was a revelation. Stunning. Serena texted me a picture of you two dancing—she said you looked ‘utterly perfect together.’ She was right.”

The mention of Serena’s name was a spider crawling down my spine, each syllable a delicate, poisonous leg. She’d sent him a photo. They were in contact. Tonight, while she was smiling to my face and whispering poison in my ear, she was texting him.

Adrian’s hand, still holding mine, went rigid. His entire body went still, the kind of stillness that comes before a strike. Not a muscle moved, but the air around him vibrated with a silent, lethal frequency. I could feel it humming through the bones of my hand.

“That’s so nice of her,” I said, my voice low, an automatic response to fill the sudden, charged quiet.

Alexander shrugged, his expression open and easy. The picture of a harmless, handsome gossip. “What can I say? We’ve always been close. She was just so thrilled for you, Adrian. Really.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his tone dripping with false sincerity. “She couldn’t stop gushing about how happy you looked.” He turned his charming smile back to me, and this time it didn’t reach his eyes at all. They were cool, assessing. “And she’s not one for false praise. You must have really made an impression.”

Adrian seemed to smile back. It was a sharp, tight movement of his lips that had nothing to do with warmth. It was the baring of teeth. “How kind of her to notice,” he said, his voice a smooth, polished blade.

I felt Adrian’s thumb press hard into my knuckle—a silent, punishing punctuation. The pressure wasn’t possessive this time. It was furious. He seemed affected by this. Too affected.

A cold, unwelcome thought slipped through the cracks in my composure: Was he jealous?

The idea sent a strange, forbidden warmth through the chill in my veins, immediately followed by a wave of self-loathing. This was a transaction. A performance. His jealousy, if that’s what it was, wouldn’t be for me. It would be for the principle, for the challenge to his authority. Serena was a piece from his past trying to re-enter his game. That’s all.

“It is, isn’t it?” Alexander beamed, either oblivious to or delighting in the tension he’d created. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. You’ve got a big trip to pack for! Somewhere sunny, I hope?”

“That’s the plan,” Adrian said, not giving an inch, his voice flat.

“Wonderful! Well, you kids have a fantastic time.” Alexander clapped Adrian on the shoulder—a brotherly gesture Adrian endured without moving a muscle, like a statue tolerating a pigeon. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He winked at me, a flash of knowing amusement, then turned and sauntered down the steps, whistling a cheerful, taunting tune.

We stood there, frozen, as Alexander’s footsteps faded. The sound was light, infuriatingly carefree, a stark contrast to the leaden silence that had settled between us.

I didn’t move right away. The pieces clicked into place with a sickening finality.

He was involved. With Serena.

It wasn’t just a vague alliance. The shared photo, the casual intimacy of his tone—they were co-conspirators. They were sharing notes, comparing observations, laughing at us from opposite ends of the same text thread.

Adrian still hadn’t released my hand.

He was staring straight ahead at the empty driveway, his jaw locked, his expression smoothed to a point of terrifying, polished danger. His thumb pressed once more into my knuckle—a hard, almost painful punctuation of silent fury—then stilled, as if he’d just remembered the shape of my hand in his wasn’t a permanent claim.

He let go.

His fingers unraveled from mine with a deliberate slowness that felt like a different kind of confession. The night air rushed in to cool the skin he’d been touching, and the absence felt louder than his grip.

A stupid, fragile ache bloomed under my breastbone. He seemed affected. Truly.

"He's involved with Serena?” I asked, the question leaving my lips before I could cage it. My voice was barely a whisper.

His eyes cut to me, and they darkened, just a fraction. A cloud passing over a winter sky. Enough that I noticed. Enough that my chest tightened in a way I didn’t have permission to feel.

“Probably,” he replied. Short. Sharp. Straight to the point. A verbal blade sheathed in a single word.

I nodded, as if that simple syllable shattered everything.

He had history with her.

Real history. Not a contract. Not a transaction. She was polished, powerful, perfectly suited to the gilded cages and silent wars of his world. She knew his habits, his moods—she’d said so herself. She was the benchmark. The original.

And then there was me.

The contract wife. A fake. The convenient illusion, the girl in the emerald dress playing dress-up in a world where she knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. A temporary stand-in for whatever perfection Serena Vance represented.

The humiliation was a cold wash, clean and brutal. I’d let myself forget, for a few dangerous hours, what I was. The gala, his protectiveness, the way he’d looked at me… it had felt like something. But it was just good acting. He was a master strategist, and I was a pawn he was moving across the board, my momentary shine just a reflection of his will.

I straightened my spine, the motion automatic. I stepped half a pace away from him, putting a careful, polite distance between us again. Reclaiming my place. The employee. The contractor. The hired heart.

“Well,” I said, folding my now-empty hands together in front of me, a bland, professional smile touching my lips, “we should probably go inside. Pack.”

The words were ash in my mouth.

But inside, my thoughts were a screaming, tangled riot.

If this was fake…

If I was only playing a role…

Then why did it feel like a betrayal when his hand went rigid at her name?

And worse…

Why did it feel like a small, personal death to remind myself that none of it—not the dress, not the ring, not the heat of his gaze, and certainly not the man himself—was mine to begin with?

And now, tomorrow, I was going on a trip, a honeymoon, with a man who still probably loved his ex, I felt alone, I just had one family left.

Aunt Claire

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