By morning, the news had broken.
"Mystery Bride of Billionaire Damien Cross Unveiled at Kingsworth Gala!"
"Who is Emilia Blackwood? Former Nobody, Now CEO's Arm Candy?"
"Cross Marries in Secret—But Why?"
The headlines were predictable. The photos less so.
They'd captured her smile—tight, beautiful, lifeless. They'd zoomed in on the ring. On the dress. On the distance between her and Damien, even when he held her hand.
It looked exactly like what it was: a transaction.
Celia, the PR manager from Cross Enterprises, called her before breakfast.
"Damage control is working overtime," Celia said in her no-nonsense tone. "We've set up a VanityView exclusive. You'll pose for a photo shoot in the penthouse. Give them the illusion of love. You'll look radiant. Heartbroken girls across the country will want to be you."
"Ironic," Emilia muttered, staring at her untouched coffee.
"Ideal," Celia corrected. "Be tragic but untouchable. Vulnerable but aspirational. Damien wants this wrapped up with a bow."
Damien wants. Damien needs. Damien decides.
It was always him.
"Fine," Emilia said, setting down the cup. "I'll play pretty wife. But next time, you want to sell a lie, at least let me pick the lighting."
---
The stylists arrived at noon.
By two, her face had been contoured into perfection. Her hair fell in brushed waves, expensive and effortless. They dressed her in a white silk blouse and pale grey slacks with a diamond necklace that rested just at her collarbone.
She looked like she belonged here.
She didn't.
The photographer cooed and clicked and said things like, "Turn your chin a bit. Gaze at the skyline. Think: adoration."
Emilia thought of nothing at all.
Damien arrived halfway through the shoot, late and unreadable in a navy suit. He kissed her cheek in front of the flash and rested his hand on her waist like it had always been there.
"You smell like lavender," he murmured.
"You smell like control issues," she whispered back.
He smirked.
The camera clicked.
And just like that, they were the perfect couple again.
---
When the shoot ended, Emilia peeled off the necklace like a shackle.
Damien watched her from the corner of the room, one hand in his pocket, the other swirling scotch in a crystal glass.
"You're good at this," he said.
"At pretending?"
"At surviving."
She looked at him then. Truly looked.
"You think that's the same thing?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
---
That evening, as twilight spilled violet across the skyline, Emilia slipped away to the penthouse balcony. The city below pulsed with light and secrets.
She leaned against the railing, barefoot, hair undone.
Damien found her there.
"You could fall," he said quietly.
"I could fly."
He stepped closer, his presence like gravity. "What are you thinking?"
"That maybe we're both just ghosts pretending to be human."
He was silent for a beat.
Then: "You're not a ghost, Emilia. You're a mirror."
She turned to him. "What do I reflect?"
He didn't blink. "Everything I've tried to bury."
---
Later that night, she opened her phone.
A message from Sierra.
Did you see the blogs?
They think you're pregnant already.
Emilia laughed. A quiet, broken thing.
She replied:
Tell them it's immaculate conception.
But even as she joked, a cold thought curled in her chest.
If Damien had bought her as a bride…
What else had he bought her for?
And when that contract expired, who would she be?