Loving the enemy

Chapter 7

Ava’s pov

Mrs. Hart had just finished fastening the neck piece when there was a knock.

“Come in,” I managed.

Liam stepped in and stopped.

I didn’t turn right away. I let him look at the green silk that hugged my hips, the open line of my back, the gleam of diamonds on my neck. I pretended to be trying to put my earring on so I’d have an excuse to keep my hands steady. In the mirror, I caught his reflection.

His expression didn’t change.

His eyes did. His gaze slowly went up from my leg to my face. No comment. No compliment. Just that stare assessing me, too intimate for the distance between us.

My heart raced.

“Is it… acceptable?” I asked.

He blinked, like I’d interrupted a thought. “It will do,” he said but he didn’t move. Didn’t look away.

Mrs. Hart cleared her throat. “I’ll bring the clutch,” she said leaving the room.

The door clicked. We were alone. I turned to face him fully.

“The necklace suits you,” he said with his eyes around my neck now.

“You told me to wear it.”

He stepped closer, not close enough to touch

“Keep your hair like that,” he murmured.

“Like what?” I asked, even though I knew.

His eyes lifted. “As if I did it.”

I watched him reach into his pocket and bring out a small box. He opened it and took out the ring in it looking at me. He stretched his hand towards mine and put the ring on my finger. I felt like we were married for real now. He offered his arm, all business again. “Ready?” he asked.

No. “Yes.”

I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, and his stare warmed. We walked toward the door.

***

The car door opens to a wall of light.

Flash lights from every corner. At this moment I felt I could get blind. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from it all but remembered that this was my life, for now at least and I had to get used to it. Cameras, microphones, perfume, ambition, everything had their role to play as I observed.

His hand appears first, palm up, patient. I take it because my knees might forget what they’re for.

“Left foot first,” Liam says, voice low enough to disappear into the roar. “Chin up. Smile when I say.”

I nod like this is normal. Like I belong. My fingers slide to his arm, holding tight. With that we both stepped out of the car, Daniel following behind.

“Liam! Over here!”

“Mr. Vance, the explosion—who planted the—”

“Is it true you’ve been hiding your wife?”

“Liam Vance’s mysterious wife revealed at last!”

The last line drew me to reality. I kept my head high like Liam instructed, pretending not to hear the comments.

“Three steps,” he murmurs, guiding me. “We pause at the tapes. Smile to the left. Not yet.”

His hand finds the small of my back, controlling my movements with his slight touches. A flash goes off too close—dots bloom in my eyes—and his shoulder angles between me and the lens, absorbing the shot.

“Now,” he says.

I let a smile bloom and tilt toward the left.

“Name, Mrs. Vance?” someone shouts.

I don’t flinch. Liam moves us half a step forward, so precise it feels choreographed. “Ignore that,” he breathes. “Look past them.”

“Mr. Vance, is this the woman from the hospital photo?”

“Is she the reason you’ve kept out of sight?”

“Can we see the ring?”

The word ring hits me. I squeeze his arm. I could here him whisper. “Turn your hand so they can’t see.” I do. He leans down, mouth almost at my temple. “Two more seconds. Then we move.”

“Liam!” A voice says higher than the rest. “People say your wife saved your life—care to comment?”

He doesn’t laugh, but I feel it. The almost. “Step,” he says softly, and we move forward. His stride adjusts to mine, not the other way round.

“On three,” Liam says, brushing his knuckles against mine where I cling to him. “Eyes up. No teeth.”

I exhale, mouth closed, eyes soft. Three counts. My smile lifts just enough to look real in photos and not real at all.

“Mrs. Vance, when did you marry?”

“Why the secrecy?”

“Are you pregnant?”

Pregnant, what?!

My smile doesn’t crack. Liam’s doesn’t either—because he doesn’t have one. “Inside,” he decides, and the wedge around us tightens.

Silence is relative; the gala hums ahead—strings warming up, the clink of glass, money practicing its smile. I’m still breathing for the sidewalk.

“Good,” he says without looking at me. “You didn’t answer. Don’t answer unless I ask you to.”

“I figured,” I whisper, trying to make my mouth work again.

He glances down. The look is quick, sharp, then lingers. That same studying stare from earlier when he saw me in the gown and said nothing—only looked until my skin sang. His mouth tips, not a smile, but something like acknowledgment.

“Left side is your angle,” he says. “The neckline reads better. Keep hair on the shoulder.”

I should bristle. I hear myself say, “Bossy.”

“Efficient.” He offers me his arm again, as if I ever let go. “I’ll take the first questions. You’ll laugh once—lightly—when I mention the auction. If I touch your wrist, it means pivot. If I say we’re late, it means we’re leaving.”

“And if you say I need air?”

He stops. For a second it’s just the two of us in a hotel that cost a small nation to build. The corner of his mouth moves. “Then we find it.”

Something stupid and traitorous opens in my chest. I look away before it shows. A server slips by with champagne; Liam takes two flutes, presses one into my hand.

“Don’t drink,” he says, almost amused. “Hold. It photographs well.”

“Right.” I lift the glass, the bubbles acting like I’m calm. We start toward the ballroom. The chandeliers are galaxies. People turn. Heads bend together. The whisper changes shape in here, less fanged, more sharp. The music swells; the hostess starts gliding over in sequins and practiced warmth.

“One more thing,” he murmurs, and his breath ghosting my ear is warmer than the lights. “If they mention the hospital photo, smile like it’s a private joke. It takes the teeth out of it.”

“And if they ask my name again?”

“Let them.” He tilts his head toward the doors we just survived. “They can write Mrs. Vance twenty different ways and still tell the same story.”

“Which is?”

His eyes find mine in the glitter storm and hold. “That I showed up with the only person who could make them forget I nearly died.”

The hostess reaches us like a tide breaking. “Mr. Vance! So thrilled you could—oh, and Mrs. Vance, welcome.” Her smile is a thousand-watt apology for every camera outside. “Right this way.”

We move. We are a picture moving through a room that wants to memorize us. It feels like stepping into a lie so polished it reflects back truth. My hand steadies on his arm. His hand steadies at my back.

At the ballroom’s mouth, a reporter we weren’t supposed to see wedges past a server. He’s quick; security is quicker, but the question lands between us anyway.

“Mr. Vance, is your wife the reason you’ve canceled the private investigation?”

Heat darts up my spine. I don’t know the answer. Liam doesn’t break stride.

“Smile,” he reminds me without moving his lips.

I do. He touches my wrist and we turn to the grand staircase, to the donors, to the night we’re about to lie to. He leans close as if to kiss my cheek and whispers, “You did well.”

Three words. A ridiculous flush climbs my throat. The music swells, the room opens, and together we step into the spotlight.