The invitation arrived the following morning.
Formal. Polite. Non-negotiable.
Ivara read it twice, not because the content was unclear, but because of what it implied. A corporate gala. High visibility. Media presence. The kind of event where appearances mattered more than truth.
Calder didn't need to say it aloud.
This was one of the designated days.
She found him in the living room that evening, already dressed, jacket perfectly tailored, cufflinks understated but unmistakably expensive. He looked as he always did in public settings, composed, controlled, unremarkable in the way power often was.
"You didn't ask," she said.
"There was no need," he replied.
She resisted the urge to comment. Instead, she glanced down at the dress that had been laid out for her earlier. Elegant. Conservative. Chosen with intention.
"You picked it," she said.
"Yes."
"To match the narrative?"
"To avoid distraction."
She arched a brow. "From what?"
"From speculation."
They rode down together in silence, the city lights bleeding across the windows of the car. Ivara watched reflections slide over Calder's face. He was already in performance mode. She could tell by the way his attention sharpened outward rather than inward.
When they arrived, cameras flashed immediately.
Not aggressively. Not intrusively. Just enough to remind her that they were expected.
Calder's hand settled at the small of her back. Not possessive. Directive.
She adjusted instantly, matching his pace, and her posture shifted subtly to mirror his. She had done this before, in other contexts. Negotiations. Boardrooms. High-stakes meetings.
This was no different.
Except it was.
People watched them the way they watched something they wanted to believe in. Heads tilted. Smiles lingered. Whispers followed.
The marriage was working.
"I didn't realize belief could feel this heavy," she murmured.
Calder didn't look at her. "It means they're convinced."
"And that matters."
"Yes."
They were stopped every few steps. Introductions. Congratulations. Questions framed as compliments.
"How did you meet?"
"You look radiant together."
"Such a surprise announcement."
Calder answered smoothly, his responses practiced but not rehearsed. Ivara followed his lead, offering just enough warmth to reinforce the illusion without overselling it.
She was good at this.
That realization unsettled her more than the attention.
At one point, a woman she didn't recognize leaned in close, eyes sharp with curiosity. "You seem very at ease with him," she said softly.
Ivara smiled. "Appearances can be deceptive."
The woman laughed, unconvinced.
Later, alone for a brief moment near the balcony, Ivara let the night air cool her skin. The city below glittered with indifference.
Calder joined her without asking.
"You're performing well," he said.
"That's a strange compliment."
"It's an accurate one."
She turned to face him. "You don't seem concerned that this might blur lines."
"I accounted for that," he replied.
"And if I stop performing?"
He met her gaze steadily. "You won't."
She laughed once, quietly. "You're very confident."
"I'm observant."
Inside, applause broke out. Some announcement. Some speech. The moment passed without meaning.
When they rejoined the crowd, Calder's hand found hers again. This time, the contact lingered half a second longer than necessary.
She noticed.
So did the man standing a few feet away, watching them with an interest that felt too focused to be casual.
His gaze flicked from Calder to Ivara, then away when Calder looked back.
"Who is that?" she asked.
Calder followed her line of sight. His expression didn't change.
"Someone paying attention."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that matters."
The rest of the evening passed in controlled fragments. Conversation. Smiles. Laughter that never quite reached her chest.
By the time they left, the narrative had been reinforced. Cameras captured them close, composed, and believable.
In the car, the silence felt heavier.
"You held my hand longer," she said finally.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it was expected."
She glanced at their joined hands, still connected. "And now?"
He didn't release her immediately.
"Now," he said, "it's optional."
Her breath caught before she could stop it.
Calder let go a moment later, as if he'd proven his point and no longer needed the evidence.
At home, alone again, Ivara replayed the evening in her mind. The looks. The assumptions. The way belief had settled around them like a second skin.
This was no longer just a private arrangement.
It was a public fact.
And somewhere between performance and proximity, something dangerous had begun to form not attraction, not trust, but expectation.
The world believed in their marriage.
And belief, she was learning, was harder to escape than any contract.