Ana didn't expect to see him in the kitchen.
Let alone... cooking.
Christian stood by the stove, sleeves rolled, a whiskey glass untouched beside him. The smell of garlic and rosemary drifted across the marble.
She leaned against the doorframe. "Did your chef quit?"
He didn't turn. "He did. The moment I asked him for privacy."
Ana raised an eyebrow. "Privacy for what?"
He finally looked up, eyes unreadable. "There's a charity dinner tomorrow night. Formal. The board will be there. So will the press."
Ana crossed her arms. "So I'm supposed to play the perfect wife again?"
His gaze flicked down to her mouth. "You're very good at it."
"That doesn't mean I enjoy it."
He didn't respond.
Just plated the pasta, perfectly arranged, like everything else in his life.
Ana watched him silently for a moment. Then… "What's really happening tomorrow?"
Christian paused.
"A shareholder will be there," he said slowly. "Someone with influence. Someone watching how we perform… together."
Ana smirked bitterly. "So I'm back on stage."
He walked closer, sliding the plate toward her like a peace offering.
"Wear something red," he said.
Then turned and left.
🥀 The Next Night – The Dinner
The hotel ballroom glittered with chandeliers and surface-level smiles.
Ana stepped out of the black car, legs crossed in a red satin slit that made heads turn before she even reached the carpet.
Christian offered his arm.
She took it. For the cameras.
Not for him.
They were a vision of power.
Until Ana saw her.
Victoria Monroe.
Hair pinned in icy waves. Diamonds crawling down her collarbone. And a seat beside Christian's mentor.
Ana blinked slowly. "You invited her?"
"I didn't," Christian muttered. "She invited herself."
"And you let her stay?"
He looked at her, voice low and firm. "I have everything I need to win tonight. You included."
Ana stared at him.
He wasn't looking at Victoria.
He was looking at her.
And that was the problem.
Because the more he looked at her like she meant something…
The harder it was to remember that she didn't.
🍷 Later – At the Table
Victoria leaned forward, smile poised. "You look stunning, Ana. Red suits you. Like fresh blood."
Ana smiled back. "Thank you. And you look just the same as always. Like a tax deduction."
Christian coughed into his glass.
Victoria's eyes narrowed. "Some women are good at playing pretend. Some… start believing the fantasy."
Ana leaned closer. "And some women live off old headlines and think they're still relevant."
Victoria's lips twitched.
Christian placed his hand under the table on Ana's thigh.
Not possessive.
Just… steady.
She didn't pull away.
But she didn't let herself breathe, either.
📓 Ana's Journal Entry #5
Victoria Monroe sat beside him tonight.
Hair flawless. Skin polished. Smile sharper than ever.
She didn't wear red.
Because she didn't have to set fires—
She is the fire.
And yet...
He looked at me.
Not her.
Not the woman he once called his future.
Me.
Maybe it was part of the act. Maybe he just knew the cameras were watching.
But under the chandelier glare, with a thousand lies clinking in champagne flutes around us—
His hand found my thigh.
Not possessively. Not publicly.
Just… present.
And I hated what it did to me.
I hated that I didn't move.
That I wanted his hand to stay.
That a single touch from him made the room fade.
I'm not supposed to feel anything.
That was the deal.
That was the rule.
But then she smiled at me like I was the disposable one,
and I smiled back like I wasn't already falling apart inside.
Maybe I want him to care.
Maybe that's my mistake.
But tonight, for one breathless second—
I let myself believe he already does.
Ana closed her journal gently, heart still hammering.
The mask she wore at that dinner was flawless.
But here, in these pages—
She didn't have to fake anything.
To be continued...