Chapter 12 FOR THE PUBLIC
(Eli’s POV)
The next couple of days after the assassination attempt were a charade of public smiles and controlled interviews.
It's literally so exhausting and boring. I don't know if I can survive any more of it.
Every morning began with makeup artists, suits, flashing cameras, and a car that smelled like expensive anxiety.
Every night ended the same way: me peeling off a mask I hadn’t realized I was wearing.
And I might as well add that Celeste started showing up everywhere.
Press luncheons, charity galas, ribbon cuttings… She was a ghost wrapped in diamonds. Her laugh always landed just a little too close to Julian’s shoulder, her perfume always lingered too long when she passed.
Julian never reacted, at least not in any visible way. But every time her name slipped into a conversation, his jaw tightened just enough for me to notice.
At first, I told myself I was imagining things.
Then I stopped lying.
Because lately, Julian had been everywhere — on panels, talk shows, high-society events. He gave speeches about “economic integrity” and “restoring corporate faith.”
Words that sounded suspiciously political.
I wasn’t an idiot. I could see it.
Julian Thorne was setting the stage for something bigger.
He wasn’t just repairing his reputation; he was building a throne out of it.
And me? I was the polished accessory beside him. The proof of stability or should I say controversy. The story the cameras loved to sell.
By the time we returned home that night, I felt like my spine was made of exhaustion.
I loosened my tie the second we got inside, ignoring how the fabric clung to my neck like a leash. I slumped onto the bed, half on, half off, staring at the ceiling.
For a few fleeting seconds, I almost dozed off.
Then Julian walked in.
He was still in his suit, immaculate as ever, no sign that he’d just spent ten hours smiling through lies. He didn’t speak, didn’t even look at me at first; he just held out a tablet like a doctor presenting a terminal diagnosis.
I squinted at it. “What now?”
He didn’t answer.
So I took it.
The screen lit up with the logo of one of the city’s biggest media outlets — Capital Gazette — and the headline stretched across the screen in screaming gold text:
“THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN MR. JULIAN THORNE AND HIS NEWLY WED SPOUSE IS A HOAX!”
“Statement from ex-fiancée confirms Mr. Thorne is faking his marriage with his current spouse.
While reasons remain unclear, sources claim Mr. Thorne’s sudden union was orchestrated for strategic gain. According to Celeste Varin, Mr. Thorne “is not, and has never been, interested in men.”
The couple’s body language in recent public appearances appears distant, even cold. Speculations arise as to why one of the state's most influential man would fake a marriage — and why with someone outside his usual circle of high society.”
I blinked.
Then laughed; the kind that had no humor left in it.
“Well,” I said, handing the tablet back to him. “Doesn’t seem like my problem. Deal with your ex’s bruised ego.”
Julian didn’t take it. He just stood there, unmoving. His silence was heavier than the words on the screen.
“Our marriage,” he said finally, his voice smooth but lethal, “is being called fake.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And?”
He looked at me like I’d just asked if gravity was optional.
“Well, what can my low-class self do about it?” I asked, already tired of this shit. I just want to go to sleep for goodness sake.
That’s when he moved.
Fast. Controlled. Precise.
He grabbed my tie and yanked me upright, the silk biting against my throat.
For a second, my breath caught.
Julian’s face was close enough that I could see the faint reflection of the tablet’s glow in his eyes. Cold, deliberate eyes that didn’t flinch.
“It’s time,” he said softly, “for some damage control.”
My pulse spiked. “Julian—”
He didn’t let go. “You wanted to play the part, Eli. Now you’ll act it out.”
“I never said I wanted—”
He tugged the tie just enough to make the words break. “You said you’d do your part. You’ll smile, you’ll hold my hand, you’ll look like the man every camera wants to envy.”
“Sounds a lot like being a prop.”
“Good props don’t talk back.”
The air between us stretched tight; too much silence, too little distance. His grip loosened, but only slightly.
I met his gaze, trying not to look away first. “You’re really bothered by this, aren’t you?”
“Perception,” he said, stepping closer, “is everything. Faking a marriage is not something a man like me should have tagged to his name. And our marriage is not fake.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smirked faintly. “No. It’s the only one that matters.”
Julian finally let go of the tie. I stumbled a little, breathing in the air he’d stolen.
“So what,” I said, straightening, “you want me to make a statement? Post a selfie with the caption ‘Still fake, still fabulous’?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “We’ll attend the Crescent Gala tomorrow. Full press coverage, live broadcast. We’ll arrive together. You’ll smile like I told you the best joke you’ve ever heard.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll remind them why they think I married you — because you make chaos look like an accessory.”
I glared. “You sound insane.”
“Insane,” he said, almost to himself, “is a luxury people like us can’t afford. I'd love to be insane but I got too much to handle. I can't afford insanity.”
He turned, heading for the door. I thought he was leaving… but he paused at the threshold.
“Celeste won’t stop here,” he added, voice low. “She’s not just after attention.”
“Then what does she want?”
He looked back at me, expression unreadable. “To ruin mine.”
The door closed softly behind him.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the dim glow of the tablet still on the bed. The article stared back — my face frozen mid-blink beside Julian’s in one of our many posed photos.
We looked like strangers.
Maybe because we were.
I dropped the tablet onto the sheets and rubbed at the red line the tie had left against my neck.
“Damage control,” I muttered to the empty room.
The words sounded bitter enough to burn.
Because that’s all this was; a performance. A script I never agreed to read from.
Julian Thorne could control everything — the cameras, the stories, the people.
But maybe, just mayb
e, one day I’d learn how to turn that control against him.
For now, though, all I could do was wait for the next act.
And play my part.