Episode4_The_Spotlight_burns
910 Words
Two weeks into the agreement, April had grown to be a name. Front-page content not only whispers one in online forums or galleries but also.
Her picture, walking alongside Warren in a champagne silk gown, his hand brushing the small of her back, made the cover of a prominent entertainment blog. The caption: "Mystery Fiancee of Billionaire Warren Whitemore: Muse or Mastermind?”
She laughed at first. Then she had checked the comment section.
It's evident that she's doing it for the money. Who is she even? Some Insta artist? Warren can do better.
Naturally, Warren hadn't raised a brow. People chat. Their job is that. Ours is to offer them something more to chat about.
It's simple for him to declare.
Less she painted. Not getting enough sleep. cutting back on food intake Every trip was staged. Each smile is quantified. And tonight, this would be the greatest performance ever.
They were present at a Whitmore estate dinner. Confidential Family alone. A small group of chosen visitors. and his mother.
Adaora had never felt more like she was heading into a lion's nest.
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THE WHITMORE'S ESTATE
An hour outside the city was the Whitmore property. Acres of manicured gardens. More like a private museum than a home, the house appeared. Too still. Money somehow sucked sound.
Warren supported her out of the car, his palm locked at her hips. He hadn't spoken much on the drive. Only conversational filler. Music. Stress.
“You don't have to say much," he advised her at the door. "Just smile and let me manage my mother."
Why do I feel like your mother feeds people like me for breakfast?
"Because she does."
Before April could answer, the butler flung open the door.
Inside, the house was much colder than it seemed. Completely immaculate. Every piece of pricey, uncomfortable furniture. The kind of place wherein childhoods were not developed but rather groomed
.
Seated like a monarch on a high-backed chair in the main drawing room, Lady Ariana Whitmore was waiting. Pearls around her neck, perfect makeup, and hair gleaming.
"Warren," she remarked, nodding.
"Mother." Her eyes turned toward April.
You must be the artist.
April advanced. "Yes, ma'am." April Jameson. That is great pleasure."
Lady Ariana examined her from head to toe. “We’ll see.”
Though only six seats were occupied, dinner was served in a candlelit room with a table long enough for twelve. Two cousins and one older man introduced as Uncle Clement—a board member in one of the family's businesses—apart from Warren, his mother, and April.
The dinner was wonderful. April, however, could hardly detect it.
"So April," Lady Ifeoma remarked at one point, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. "How long have you and my son been entangled?"
Adaora grinned. "Several months."
"That's very fast." from acquaintance to engagement."
"I guess when you know, you know."
Lady Ariana raised an eyebrow. Is that what they say in your groups?
Warren spoke gently over. Mother.” "I know it's rapid. Time, though, is not always the greatest indicator of communication.
Uncle Clement laughed. "You appear like a poet."
I'm an artist. Same fight, different weapons.
"Do you intend to keep painting after you wed?" Lady Ariana inquired, her voice soft but clear.
“I plan to never stop.”
A hush dropped. April met her gaze. For once, Lady Ariana blinked first.
Warren looked at her laterally. Though she was not certain, he seemed to be astonished.
Warren led her through the west corridor following supper.
“You handled her better than I had anticipated,” he observed.
"She's not frightening." She's just sharp.”
"She's a sword," he replied. "She never fades."
They passed a closed door. April stopped. "What is in there?"
Warren halt. "No one goes inside there."
Turning toward him, she "Why?" He paused. "That belonged to my brother."
April fell silent. "The one who ... ?"
Yes. She did not drive.
Two days later, back in the city flat, a twist fell like a bomb.
Her phone exploded with a dozen missed calls as April had just returned from groceries. WARREN Dunni. The gallery assistant she hardly recalled giving her number.
She turned on the television.
BREAKING NEWS: Warren Whitemore’s Involvement Is a Ruse? EXCLUSIVE LEAKED EMAILS POINT TO A CONTRACTUAL AGREEMENT WITH "fiancee" APRIL JAMESON.
April spilled the grocery bag. Eggs broke. Milk landed.
Screenshots of emails—made but believable—were visible on the screen. Someone had hacked a sample email thread. The leakage said she was being paid to serve as emotional cover and "boost visibility."
Warren's face next surfaced. An ancient interview segment They froze at the gala.
Her phone rang.
Warren.
He declared, his voice clipped: "Don't speak a syllable to anybody." "We're handling it."
Someone disclosed false emails.
“We know. The source is being followed. Still, it is already spreading.
“What should we do?”
“We make it real.”
She blinked. "What?" he sighed. We open public. Full interview. Cameras. Convince them so strongly they forget to doubt."
April's pulse increased suddenly. “That wasn't part of the arrangement."
It is now.
The line died.
She stood staring at her reflection in the empty TV screen in the madness of spilled milk and broken eggs.
She had ceased to be
merely under contract.
She was battle-bound.
She also had no idea who shot the first shot.
- Writer
