“No Strings... Right?” ANNA’S P.O.V I stood frozen. He looked at me. I looked at him. The priest's voice still hung in the air like smoke. "You may kiss the bride." Liam didn’t move. Neither did I. Not out of fear—out of the cold, awkward understanding that this wasn’t love. This was business. A performance. A lie wrapped in white silk. His brows lifted slightly, a wordless question. Was I going to play my part? I hesitated—only a second—but it felt longer than the ceremony itself. Then, I forced a smile, leaned in, and brushed my lips against his cheek. Quick. Light. Done. A polite round of applause followed. A few camera flashes. One guest even whispered, “Classy.” Liam’s jaw tightened just slightly as he turned toward the crowd, his hand sliding off my waist like it burned him. The moment passed. We are married now. A fake wife. A fake life. For three months. And yet, somehow, as he laced his fingers with mine and led me down the aisle in front of hundreds of people,
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