Chapter 20 Playing Wife
••Luciana••
“You didn’t check the time?”
Roman’s voice hit the air like a cold drop of water on hot skin. I jerked my eyes from the laptop screen to him—tall, perfectly sculpted, framed by the doorway like a very expensive problem.
My eyes darted to the digital clock pulsating near my files.
5:00 p.m. Already.
Of course.
“I’ll get dressed in a bit,” I mumbled, closing the laptop, even though Sapphire Lounge’s financial troubles echoed in my mind—lost funds, feuding staff, a creeping destruction gnawing at the place my father once nonchalantly tossed into conversation like a random gift.
I’m putting that lounge under your name, Luci…you’ll understand its importance someday.
Someday had arrived without warning, claws out.
I stood from the bed and moved to the closet, pulling out dresses until a small war zone formed on the floor. Finally, I found something worthy—a rich wine satin gown with a daring slit and gentle draping that hugged my waist. It exuded class with a hint of edge; feminine yet formidable. A dress that didn’t plead for attention—it murmured.
I slipped into my heels, styled my hair into soft waves, and adorned myself with earrings that sparkled mischievously. When I stepped into the hallway, there he was, waiting by the stairs.
Roman.
He looked… well.
His dark hair was swept back with meticulous precision, as if each strand was trained into submission. His steel-grey eyes assessed me briefly, but I noted the flicker of interest. Dressed in a black suit tailored to near perfection, with textured lapels and a crisp white shirt that contrasted strikingly with his olive complexion—with that cologne…rich, expensive, and woody.
I allowed myself a moment of admiration, but reality crashed back when he turned and simply walked to the car, opening the door on his side.
I blinked.
“Oh no. I absolutely cannot stand him,” I muttered under my breath, yanking my door open myself.
The drive was a silent sculpture of unspoken tension. I watched the cityscape blur by while he remained glued to his phone. As we arrived at the gala, the entrance erupted with warm light, laughter, and a gentle symphony. Stepping inside, we were immediately enveloped by a polite chaos.
“Mr. Orlov, welcome.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Such an honor, Mrs. Orlov.”
Hands reached out, faces leaned close. Smile after smile flashed like the clicks of camera shutters. Some men bowed slightly while women pretended to kiss the air near my cheek, all sharing the same intense gaze—curiosity sharpened to a blade.
Roman responded to each greeting with the efficiency of a man approving a series of deals. I plastered on my social smile, the same one I wielded at Moretti galas, where pretending felt like breathing.
After several graceful interruptions, a voice called out to Roman in Russian. An older man approached—his white beard and warm eyes emanating a familiar authority, as though he once commanded a room full of troops.
His presence pulled Roman instantly into conversation.
They exchanged pleasantries in Russian—smooth, low tones that sounded casual but were threaded by an unmistakable intensity. I couldn’t understand their words, but I recognized the rhythm, the tension, and the way powerful men masked sharp questions with friendly laughter.
Eventually, the older man turned to me, switching to accented English.
“You are even more beautiful in person, Mrs. Orlov. Roman has understated you.”
Roman’s brows flicked, and I pretended I didn't notice.
The man chuckled and reverted to Russian, effortlessly weaving what seemed to be a story by the gestures of his hands, and Roman’s brief responses, a slight smile dancing at the edge of his lips.
Then, leaning in closer, his voice brightened.
“I trust your honeymoon was delightful?” he asked again in English, his eyes twinkling with polite mischief. “You both look wonderfully… rested.”
My stomach did a quiet somersault.
“Yes, it was…” I began, summoning the soft, radiant tones of a doting wife, “very peaceful. Exactly what we needed.”
Roman didn’t skip a beat.
His hand found mine, and he shot me a smile.
It was a flawlessly executed gesture meant for the audience, but it was not the moment I had prepared for.
His fingers intertwined with mine effortlessly, sending my heart racing wildly against my ribcage.
The elderly gentleman looked delighted.
“Ah, young love. Simply stunning.”
With a very light squeeze of my hand, Roman gave me a discreet nudge to keep up the act.
I forced a wider smile, even though my heartbeat felt like it was sprinting.
“Thank you,” I replied. “We truly appreciate it.”
It was only when the man melted into the crowd that Roman finally let go, our connection fading as if it had never been there at all.
Still, my heart refused to calm down, thrumming an erratic beat beneath the satin.