Married by Error: The CEO's Surprising Wife

Chapter 7 – The Charity Ball Mask

By the time Aira stepped into the grand hall of the Sapphire Orchid Ballroom, the illusion was nearly flawless.

She wore the red gown Elian’s stylist had chosen—off-shoulder, silk that clung to her curves, glittering like firelight under chandeliers. A mask of gold lace framed her eyes. Every strand of her hair was pinned into place like a crown.

Beside her, Elian was elegance personified. Midnight black suit. Clean-cut. Controlled. Distant.

Just like always.

But tonight, they didn’t walk in as business partners.

They walked in as husband and wife. And they had a part to play.

“Smile,” Elian whispered, his hand resting possessively on her waist as they descended the stairs.

“I am smiling,” Aira muttered under her breath. “I’m practically beaming.”

“You’re scowling with your teeth.”

She rolled her eyes, but then they stepped onto the ballroom floor, and every eye turned to them.

Flash. Whisper. Flash.

Their entrance had worked. They were the main attraction.

“I’m beginning to feel like your trophy wife,” Aira said through clenched teeth.

“You are. Tonight,” Elian replied without hesitation.

Her eyes narrowed.

But before she could fire back, a woman with diamond earrings and sharp perfume approached.

“Elian, darling,” the woman purred. “And you must be the mystery wife.”

Aira pasted on a polite smile. “We’ve dropped the mystery part. Now it’s just ‘wife.’”

The woman blinked, clearly not expecting a comeback.

Elian smirked ever so slightly. “Aira, this is Senator Valencia’s daughter, Celeste.”

Of course. Celeste Valencia. Heiress to a political dynasty. Social queen. Rumored to have once had Elian on speed dial.

“Charmed,” Aira said, voice sugar-coated.

“I must say,” Celeste replied smoothly, “you wear the role well. I wonder how long you'll keep it.”

Aira leaned in with a smile. “Long enough to make people like you uncomfortable.”

Celeste’s smile cracked—just a hair—before she swept away.

Elian chuckled under his breath. “You’re getting better at this.”

“You throw me into a pit of lions and wonder why I sharpen my claws.”

They made rounds—mingling, smiling, dancing. Elian played the part of the dutiful husband perfectly, always with his hand at her back, murmuring pleasantries in her ear, shielding her from questions too sharp.

And for a moment—just a moment—Aira forgot it was an act.

The dance floor shimmered as the lights dimmed and the first waltz began.

Elian held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

She hesitated. “You know I’m not—”

“You’ll be fine.”

She slipped her hand into his.

And suddenly they were gliding.

The music swelled, and time slowed. All she could see was him. All she could feel was the heat of his hand at her waist, the subtle strength in his hold, the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“You’re doing it again,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Looking at me like it’s real.”

He didn’t respond.

But his grip tightened. His jaw ticked.

And then, just before the song ended, he whispered low in her ear:

“I’m starting to hate pretending.”

Aira’s breath caught.

And just like that, the line between truth and lies blurred even more.