Chapter Five – Fire Behind Closed Doors
1158 Words
Chapter Five – Fire Behind Closed Doors
Three days into the marriage, and we already had a routine: fake smiles in public, firestorms in private.
We’d graced magazine covers, grinning at charity events, our fingers interlocked like some picture-perfect power couple. Photographers captured every angle, every smirk, every illusion. But behind closed doors?
We barely spoke.
Until tonight.
“I’m throwing a private dinner,” Zayden said, striding into the dressing room where I stood, rifling through an ocean of designer gowns.
“And?” I replied without turning around, holding up a sleek black number to the mirror.
“You’ll wear something red. Make it bold. I want them to talk.”
I turned slowly, arching a brow. “You want me to play trophy wife now?”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dark and unapologetically tracing the curve of my back. “I want you to remind them that I win. Always.”
My chest tightened. It was never about love. Only power. Control. Appearances.
“Fine,” I said with a shrug. “But don’t expect me to kiss you for show again.”
He stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from my shoulder with maddening gentleness. “That wasn’t for show.”
My breath hitched. His fingers lingered. His voice dropped lower.
“You should be careful, Amira. You’re starting to look at me like you forget how much you hate me.”
I tilted my head, refusing to flinch. “And you should be careful too. You’re starting to talk like you care.”
A flicker of something crossed his face—vulnerability, maybe—but it vanished like smoke. He stepped back.
“You’ll be ready at 7.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving a trail of tension thicker than any designer perfume.
I turned back to the mirror and saw a stranger. A woman dressed in diamonds but burning with a fire she didn’t ask for. My reflection stared back, daring me to keep pretending, to keep playing my role. But part of me wasn’t sure if I was still pretending… or falling into the very game I swore I’d never play.
Later that night, we stepped into the private dining hall—him in a tailored black suit, me in a red silk dress that clung like a second skin. The room shimmered with luxury: glass chandeliers twinkling overhead, a string quartet playing in the corner, silver cutlery glinting like moonlight.
Heads turned. Flashbulbs popped. The crowd buzzed with whispers and admiration.
Zayden’s hand settled on the small of my back—warm, possessive, steady.
“Convincing, aren’t we?” he whispered near my ear, his breath tickling my skin.
I smirked. “They’re eating it up.”
He chuckled darkly, voice velvet and steel. “They’ll believe it because you play the game so well. But don’t forget—this is still my game.”
“I don’t lose games,” I murmured without missing a beat.
He stared down at me, jaw tightening. “Then let’s see how long you last.”
We mingled effortlessly. He introduced me to CEOs, senators, foreign diplomats. I played the part, smiled on cue, laughed at stories I didn’t care about. All while his hand remained on my back, branding me with silent ownership.
Every so often, I’d catch him watching me. Not in the way a husband watches his wife. No—his gaze was territorial, like I was both his possession and his prey.
Dinner was served—some five-course fusion that tasted like paper to me. I barely touched it. The wine, however, I drank. I needed it to steady the storm inside me.
Beneath the table, our knees brushed. Once. Twice. I moved mine away, but he didn’t. He leaned in again, this time letting his fingers graze my thigh under the tablecloth—just enough to make me choke on my wine.
“Careful,” he said, handing me a napkin, eyes twinkling. “You’re drawing attention.”
“I should throw this wine in your face,” I hissed behind a tight smile.
“You could,” he said casually. “But then I’d have to kiss you to distract the press. And you wouldn’t want that... would you?”
My stomach twisted. Because I wasn’t sure.
At the end of the night, as we stepped into the flash of paparazzi lights, Zayden leaned in and kissed my cheek. Soft. Possessive. Public. His lips lingered just long enough to blur the lines between acting and reality.
I should’ve hated it.
Instead, my heart skipped a beat.
The limo ride home was quiet. Too quiet. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows as tension built inside the confined space.
“You kissed me,” I finally said, not bothering to look at him.
He looked out the window. “And you didn’t stop me.”
“I didn’t see the need to cause a scene.”
He glanced at me now, his eyes unreadable. “Is that what it was? Keeping up appearances?”
“Yes,” I lied.
He leaned back, one arm draped casually along the seat. “You’re a terrible liar, Amira.”
“And you’re a terrible husband.”
His mouth curved into a slow, wicked grin. “Good thing this marriage isn’t real, then.”
I stared out the window again, my chest aching in ways I didn’t want to name. The line between hate and attraction was getting too thin. And I was terrified of what might happen if I crossed it.
When we got home, I stormed upstairs, not bothering to wait. I needed space. Distance. Air.
I kicked off my heels and paced the room, fingers twitching with frustration. With want. With shame.
How had this man managed to crawl under my skin in just three days?
A knock at the door. Then it opened without waiting.
Zayden stepped in, loosening his tie like he owned the air between us.
“You forget how doors work now?” I snapped.
“You forget how vows work?”
I whirled on him. “This wasn’t a vow. It was a transaction.”
He stepped closer, slowly, deliberately. “Call it what you want. But I signed it. You signed it. And now… we’re bound.”
He was so close I could smell the faint scent of whiskey and sandalwood. So close I could feel the tension radiating off him like a furnace.
“What do you want from me?” I whispered.
His eyes darkened. “Everything you’re afraid to give.”
I shook my head, voice trembling. “You don’t even like me.”
He leaned down, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s the problem. I like you too much.”
Then he left.
No warning. No smug remark.
Just silence.
And somehow… that made it worse.
- Writer
