Behind The Mask

POV : Fiona The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight. Each strike echoed through the massive, empty mansion, sounding more like a funeral bell than a celebration. I sat alone at the edge of a dining table long enough to seat twenty people. Tonight, it was only set for two. The roasted chicken I had spent hours preparing was completely cold. The wax from the two silver candlesticks had melted down into messy, hardened puddles on the expensive lace tablecloth. I stared at the empty chair at the opposite end of the table, feeling a familiar, heavy ache in my chest. It was our third wedding anniversary. And just like the first two, my husband, Maxwell Jordan, was nowhere to be found. I looked down at my hands. The gold wedding band on my finger felt like a pair of heavy handcuffs. I twisted it around, remembering the day he slipped it onto my finger. There had been no smile on his face. Just a tight, stiff jaw and a crowd of reporters flashing cameras in our faces. I was a fool back then. I actually believed that beneath his cold, arrogant exterior, there was a heart that could learn to love me. I believed the fairy tale. But Maxwell didn't marry me for love. He married me for a signature on a piece of paper. His grandfather, Arthur Jordan, had threatened to cut Maxwell out of his massive billionaire inheritance if he didn't settle down and marry a "respectable" woman. And I, the naive girl who had fallen into his trap, was the perfect pawn. I closed my eyes, a bitter smile touching my lips as the memories rushed in. I remembered the exact moment I realized my marriage was nothing but a business deal. It was on our wedding night. I had been sitting on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, wearing a beautiful white nightgown, my heart pounding with nervous excitement. The door had opened, and Maxwell walked in. He didn't look at me with desire. He didn't pull me into his arms. Instead, he tossed a thick leather folder onto the mattress beside me. "Sign it," he had said, his voice as cold as ice. "What is this?" I asked, my hands shaking as I opened the folder. "A contract," he replied, loosening his tie and pouring himself a glass of whiskey without even looking at me. "It outlines the rules of this marriage. You get a limitless credit card, designer clothes, and a roof over your head. In exchange, you smile for the cameras, you attend family dinners, and you play the perfect, obedient wife." He took a slow sip of his drink before his dark eyes finally met mine. "And most importantly, there will be no intimacy between us. Ever. We sleep in separate rooms. Do not expect love, Fiona. You will not get it from me." My heart had shattered into a million pieces right there on our wedding night. But the worst part wasn't the contract. The worst part was that I already loved him. He had played me perfectly. When we first met at the bar where I used to work, he was an arrogant jerk who put his hands on me, and I slapped him for it. He got me fired that same night. But then, magically, a high-paying job as a secretary opened up at his company. I was desperate for money, so I took it. For months, he played the part of the apologetic, misunderstood boss. He was kind. He was charming. He made me feel special. I fell for it completely. I fell for him. It wasn't until the ring was on my finger that the mask slipped, and I saw the cold, calculating billionaire underneath. I was just a tool to get his money. I opened my eyes, bringing myself back to the quiet dining room. The candles flickered, casting long, lonely shadows against the walls. "Why do you still try, Fiona?" I whispered to the empty room. I looked down at the silk red dress I was wearing. It was his favorite color. Or, at least, I thought it was. He had complimented me on a red dress once, two years ago, and I had held onto that tiny scrap of affection like a starving dog. It was pathetic. I pushed my chair back and stood up. The silence of the house was suffocating. I started clearing the plates, scraping the cold, untouched food into the trash. Every scrape of the fork felt like a reminder of my failure. I thought of the argument we had just a week ago. I had reached my breaking point. I had walked into his home office, tears streaming down my face, and begged him to let me go. "I can't do this anymore, Maxwell," I cried, my voice cracking. "I am dying in this house. Please. Let's just end this. I don't want your money. I don't want anything. Just let me go." He hadn't even looked up from his laptop. He just kept typing, his jaw set in that hard, unforgiving line. "I won't get a divorce," he said coldly. "Why not?" I screamed, finally losing my temper. "You don't love me! You don't even look at me! Why are you keeping me trapped here?" He finally stopped typing. He slowly closed his laptop and looked at me with eyes so dark and empty they sent a shiver down my spine. "Because my grandfather is watching, Fiona," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Because if I divorce you, I lose half the company. And I will not let a foolish, emotional woman cost me my empire. You signed a contract. You belong to me. Dry your tears and go back to your room." I shook my head, trying to clear the painful memory away. I scrubbed the plates in the sink, the warm water doing nothing to thaw the ice in my veins. Suddenly, I heard it. The low hum of a car engine outside. My heart did a stupid, traitorous leap in my chest. I quickly turned off the water and wiped my hands on a towel. I walked out of the kitchen and into the grand foyer, peering through the sheer curtains of the massive front window. Headlights swept across the circular driveway, cutting through the dark, rainy night. It was Maxwell's black SUV. He was home. He had actually come home. A tiny, desperate spark of hope ignited in my chest. Maybe he remembered. Maybe he was working late, and he rushed home to be with me. Maybe the cold exterior was finally cracking, and he realized what today was. I smoothed down the front of my red dress and took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. I forced a gentle, welcoming smile onto my face. I was ready to forgive him for being late. I was ready to try again. I heard the heavy clink of his keys in the front door. The locks turned. The heavy oak door swung open, bringing a gust of cold, rainy wind into the warm foyer. "Maxwell, you're back" I started to say, stepping forward. The words died in my throat. The smile froze on my face. Maxwell walked through the door, his expensive suit slightly damp from the rain. He looked as handsome and imposing as ever. But he wasn't alone. Clinging tightly to his arm was a woman. She had long, perfectly curled blonde hair, skin that glowed like gold, and a tight, black designer dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She was leaning heavily against him, her manicured hand resting flat against his chest. It was Camilla Jones. Camilla was a model, a socialite, and everyone in the city knew she was Maxwell’s favorite companion before we got married. And clearly, she still was. Camilla let out a loud, high-pitched giggle, looking up at Maxwell through her thick eyelashes. "Oh, Maxwell, you are so bad," she purred, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. Maxwell didn't smile, but he didn't pull away from her either. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine. For a second, the foyer was dead silent. Only the sound of the rain outside filled the space between us. He saw me standing there in my red dress. He saw the dining room in the background, clearly visible from the hallway, with the melted candles and the romantic setting. He knew exactly what today was. He knew what I had tried to do. And he didn't care. There was no guilt in his eyes. No apology. Just a blank, cold stare that told me exactly where I stood. I was nothing. Camilla finally noticed me standing there. Her eyes swept over my red dress, and a cruel, mocking smirk twisted her glossy red lips. "Oh, my," Camilla said, her voice dripping with pity. "Are we interrupting something, Fiona? You look like you're dressed up for a party that nobody bothered to attend.” I stood perfectly still. My heart didn't just break in that moment; it turned to ash. All the love I had desperately clung to for three years dried up in my chest. The spark of hope that had burned just moments ago was completely extinguished, replaced by a cold, dark numbness. Maxy didn't defend me. He didn't tell her to stop. He just stood there, letting her humiliate me in my own home. "Take my coat," Maxwell ordered, his voice echoing in the silent hallway. He wasn't speaking to Camilla. He was looking directly at me.