Morning light spilled into the penthouse, warm and golden against the sleek marble counters. Serena sat at the breakfast bar, fingers wrapped around a coffee mug, her hair still damp from a quick shower. She was wearing one of Elias's shirts, the fabric hanging loose on her frame, and she couldn't decide if the unfamiliar comfort she felt was dangerous or exactly what she wanted.
Elias stood near the stove, dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The scent of fresh espresso mingled with something faintly citrus from his aftershave. For a man who rarely had time to cook, he looked entirely too competent at the task of making her breakfast.
"You're staring," he said without looking up from the pan.
"Maybe," she replied, taking a sip. "You're not what I expected."
That made him glance at her, one brow raised. "And what did you expect?"
"A man who'd have someone on his payroll to butter his toast."
He smirked faintly. "Don't give me ideas."
It was easy, this banter. Easier than she wanted to admit. But the ease cracked when his phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up with a flurry of notifications—news alerts, headlines. And there it was: their faces, together, splashed across the morning gossip feed.
Serena's stomach tightened. The image was from the bakery, the kiss they'd shared last night—her lips against his, eyes half-closed, completely unaware of anyone watching. The caption read: Billionaire Elias Moreau's Mystery Wife: Contract or True Love?
She set her mug down carefully. "Well," she said dryly, "looks like our quiet night wasn't so quiet."
Elias read the headline, jaw tightening just slightly. "Ignore it. It'll burn out in a day."
But she knew better. In his world, nothing burned out on its own. It was fed, stirred, spun into something bigger. And sure enough, by the time they finished breakfast, three more articles had appeared—speculating on her background, her bakery, even twisting an old photo of her with her brother into something scandalous.
By the afternoon, her phone was buzzing with calls from unknown numbers. Reporters, she guessed. She didn't answer any of them.
When Elias returned from a meeting that evening, he found her on the couch, laptop open, scrolling through the headlines with a mix of fascination and dread.
"You don't have to read that," he said, setting his jacket aside.
"I know," she murmured, eyes still on the screen. "But it's strange, seeing my life through their version of it. Like they've written a story about me that isn't mine."
He crossed the room and closed the laptop gently. "Then don't let them write it. We'll tell our own."
Her gaze lifted to his, searching his face for something—certainty, maybe. But all she found was determination, the kind that made her want to believe him.
Still, she couldn't help the thought that crept in: in his world, love wasn't just about two people. It was a performance, whether they wanted it to be or not. And the spotlight had a way of showing every crack.