Chapter 8 Why?
Another event.
It was yet another room dressed up in gold and illusion.
The ballroom glowed the way expensive places always do—warm candlelight bouncing off crystal and polished floors, laughter arranged into neat little pockets, glasses clinking in careful rhythm.
Everything about it felt rehearsed, like a scene everyone had memorized except me. I stood beside Jack, close enough that our sleeves brushed when we shifted, but never touching. Never quite aligning.
We smiled when required and spoke only when necessary. The perfect couple, sculpted and curated for public consumption.
If anyone looked closely, though, they might have noticed how rigid my shoulders were, how my smile never quite reached my eyes.
Jack excused himself with ease, slipping away into a cluster of dignitaries like he belonged there.
I watched him go, his posture relaxed, his expression smooth, and something sour twisted low in my chest. I stayed where I was, lifting my wineglass, the stem cool between my fingers, grounding me.
That was when Richard appeared.
He had a talent for materializing exactly where he wasn’t wanted. He slid into my space like smoke, too close, too familiar, his grin already in place before his voice followed.
“You’re watching him too closely tonight,” he murmured. “Careful, Elena. People might think you’re actually jealous.”
I didn’t respond. I shifted my weight onto one heel and took a measured sip of wine, the liquid bitter on my tongue.
“Or maybe,” he leaned in further, his breath brushing my ear, his voice laced with something sharp and ugly, “you’re just touchy because you still haven’t slept with your dear husband?”
I froze a bit, my eyes narrowed, just slightly. “You should stop talking while you’re still ahead, Richard.”
He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh, come on. You’ve always been uptight. But this?” His gaze flicked over me, slow and mocking. “The ice queen guarding a marriage that’s all headlines and no heat?”
I turned away without another word, brushing past him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
My pulse quickened, not because of his words, but because of something I caught in my peripheral vision.
Jack.
He was across the room now, leaning toward a woman I didn’t recognize.
She was elegant, laughing too easily, her hand resting lightly on his arm like it belonged there. Jack tilted his head, said something I couldn’t hear, and she laughed again—bright, unguarded.
The sight struck harder than I expected, I bet a scowl settled on my face.
My fingers tightened around the glass and—
Crack.
The stem snapped with a sharp sound, crystal biting into my palm. I didn’t flinch.
I just stared as red bloomed—wine and blood mixing, dripping slowly down my fingers, hot and silent.
Around me, no one noticed.
Not even Jack.
Richard’s attention snapped to his jacket instead, his face twisting in annoyance as wine splattered across his lapel. “Oh, look what you’ve done,” he groaned but his smirk returned.
I smiled at him, sweet and cold. “Be thankful it wasn’t those sick balls of yours that got crushed.”
His smirk faltered. I didn’t wait for a response. I turned and walked away, every step measured, my spine straight, my movements precise despite the fury coiling inside me. I could feel eyes on my back, whispers fluttering behind me like insects.
Let them talk.
The restroom door shut behind me with a hollow thud, and the moment I was alone, I lost control. I yanked my purse off my shoulder and slammed it against the sink.
The sound echoed too loudly. My hands gripped the porcelain, knuckles whitening, my head bowed as my breath came too fast.
Why?
Why had it affected me like that? I thought I'd become more grounded in nonchalance.
I stared down at the basin, my heart pounding. This was all supposed to be for show. A marriage of convenience. Names and expectations and contracts. Jack was my partner on paper, nothing more. We had roles. He played his. I played mine.
So why had seeing him laugh with someone else felt like betrayal?
It wasn’t the woman. It wasn’t flirtation. It was the way he looked—lighter, freer, happier than I’d ever seen him with me.
“What’s wrong with me?” I whispered.
I looked up at my reflection. The scowl was still on my face, my eyes were cold. Red lips. A white dress ruined by deep crimson stains that told a truth I didn’t want to face.
My stomach twisted with something sharp and unfamiliar—jealousy or longing, maybe both.
I grabbed paper towels and dabbed at the fabric, but the wine had already sunk in, spreading deeper with every frantic press. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh and tossed the ruined towels away.
Pointless.
Then my phone vibrated.
The sound sliced through the quiet, making my heart jump. I pulled it from my purse, breath catching as I read the message.
Unknown number: Enjoying all the attention?
My chest tightened. Almost immediately, the phone rang. Same number. I stared at it, the room blurring slightly as unease crept up my spine.
I declined the call and powered the phone off.
“Who the hell is this?” I muttered, though no one answered. My fingers trembled as I slipped the phone away. I wasn’t in the mood for games from anyone.
I straightened, lifted my chin, smoothed my dress even though it was useless. The mask had to go back on.
Elena Vale doesn’t crack in public.
When I stepped out of the restroom, Jack was there.
His brow creased, concern flickering across his face. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
I folded my arms across my stained dress. “I didn’t think you needed my company,” I said coolly. “You seemed busy.”
He blinked. “We’re here to network. To keep up appearances.” He whispered.
“And you decided to do that a hundred steps away from me?” The words came out sharper than I intended.
He sighed softly. “You’ve been acting distant ever since—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t say it.”
The air between us tightened. Then his gaze flicked past me, something dark flashing across his face.
Suddenly his hands were on my waist, firm, guiding me backward until my spine met the wall.
“Why?” he asked quietly as his breath fanned my face, his eyes searching mine. “Why are you angry?”
“Jack—” I started, but he leaned closer.
“If I were you,” he murmured, calm and controlled, “I’d stay still. Richard freaking Harrow is watching.”
My pulse jumped. That snake, of course he was.
Jack’s body pressed closer, his presence was overwhelming. My hands clutched his jacket without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric, my breath catching. The illusion we were selling felt dangerously real.
I shut my eyes, frustrated by how my body reacted, by the heat pooling low in my stomach.