Chapter Three: Reception
707 Words
Sienna
The ceremony is over. The reception has just begun.
I stand beside Damian and force myself to smile for the cameras. The air glimmers with laughter, champagne and perfume - expensive scents that cling to cling to designer clothes and whisper down elegant hallways.
Clinking glasses. Flashbulbs. The gentle swell of a string quartet.
It’s Damian’s world: glittering, sophisticated, and impossible to breathe in. Every gesture rehearsed, every smile practiced.
I’m playing the perfect wife to the perfect husband.
And they all believe it.
Damian’s arm slides around my waist, a low hum of approval in the back of his throat as he pulls me closer. To anyone watching, he must look like the very image of a loving and affectionate groom. But I feel the tension, the restraint under beneath his touch. The way his thumb presses into my side, a reminder to stay steady, to play my part. I wonder, faintly, if it will leave the hint of a bruise.
He leans down, brushing his lips against my cheek. “Take a breath,” he murmurs, his voice just for me. “We’re close now.”
Close to what? I wonder. Salvation? Or the edge of something neither of us can take back?
I nod, pretending calm, though my pulse thunders against the silk at my throat. My mind betrays me, flooded with thoughts I don’t want. The weight of his body on mine. The sound of his breath, low and rough in the dark. The rustle of sheets. The feel of his heartbeat against my hand.
And then I blink, pulling myself back into the room - to chandeliers that burn too bright and laughter that sounds too forced.
Damian’s hand lowers, caressing the curve of my hip before the palm lingered, possessive, against my ass. The contact sends a shiver through my lower belly. I bite my lip, trapping a small, traitorous moan in my throat. I clench my thighs together, suddenly desperate for relief.
“I can excuse myself if I’m interrupting something.”
The voice comes from behind me, smooth and familiar. I turn - and there he is.
Noah Reed.
He’s taller than I would’ve guessed from the glossy magazine covers. Broader. His tuxedo fits him like it was made for sin, his golden hair carelessly perfect, blue eyes sharp enough to slice through composure.
He lifts his glass toward me, that infamous smile curved slow and deliberate. “Mrs. Hunter,” he says, and the name sounds wicked.
Damian stiffens beside me. His polite smile sharpens into something colder. “Noah. You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Noah replies, his tone oozing charm - but his eyes don’t leave mine. “You’ve outdone yourself, Damian. Though I suppose perfection was always your brand.”
Damian’s jaw tightens. “Enjoy the evening, Noah.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
Noah’s grin widens just slightly, and I have to look away before I give myself away. There’s heat in his eyes, yes, but there’s something else too - a flicker of understanding. Of recognition. Like he could see straight through the gown, the diamonds, the carefully drawn mask.
The music swells, and Damian takes my hand. “Our first dance,” he says, voice smooth as glass.
The crowd gathers as he leads me to the center of the floor. Cameras flash. The room holds its breath.
He draws me close, hand splayed low on my back, his movements practiced and precise. From a distance, we must look perfect, like two people lost in love. But his fingers dig in just enough to remind me who’s leading.
“You’re trembling,” he says quietly.
“Maybe I’m cold,” I suggest.
His gaze flicks over my face, hardening. “Maybe you should remember what’s at stake before you start playing games.”
“I’m not the one playing,” I whisper back.
For a moment, his mask slips. Then it’s back, effortless. He spins me, and the crowd applauds.
When the song fades, another man steps forward - Noah again, this time bowing slightly.
“May I?,” he asks Damian, voice light, almost mocking.
Damian’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you must.”
- Writer
