Chapter 6 – A Perfect Lie
1088 Words
Sophia stared at Damien, her pulse racing.
“Because Alex wasn’t the first Harrington to die.”
The words echoed in the heavy silence of the room. They felt cold, sharp, and entirely too real.
“What does that mean?” she demanded, stepping closer.
Damien looked exhausted. The usual mask of absolute control had slipped, revealing dark shadows under his eyes. For a fraction of a second, it seemed like he might finally give in. Like he might finally tell her everything.
Instead, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not tonight.”
Sophia’s frustration boiled over. “You expect me to marry you, move into your home, and trust you while you keep lying to me?”
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” Damien snaps, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“And I’m trying to find out who killed Alex!”
Before either of them could say another word, a sharp, demanding ring cut through the air. Damien’s phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced at the screen, and his expression hardened immediately.
“Charles,” he murmured. He didn't look at Sophia as he added, “I have to take this.”
He walked away without waiting for a response. Sophia watched him disappear onto the balcony, his tall frame cutting a lonely figure against the backdrop of the city lights. He spoke in low, clipped tones into the receiver. For the first time, Sophia wondered if Damien wasn't the mastermind at all. Maybe he was just another prisoner in the Harrington family.
The next afternoon, the heavy oak door to Sophia’s room swung open. Maria entered carrying several heavy, black designer garment bags, laying them meticulously across the bed.
“A stylist is here,” Maria said softly.
Sophia frowned, looking up from her book. “I didn’t ask for one.”
“Mr. Harrington did.”
Sophia’s jaw tightened. “I’m not wearing anything he picked.”
Maria smiled knowingly, smoothing down the front of her apron. “Then tell him yourself.”
As if on cue, a firm knock sounded at the door minutes after Maria left.
“Come in,” Sophia called out, bracing herself.
Damien stepped inside. He had already changed into a tailored tuxedo, looking effortlessly regal. His eyes swept the room, landing instantly on the untouched garment bags.
“We leave in an hour,” he said, checking his watch.
“I’m not going.”
“You are.”
Sophia stood up, crossing her arms defensively. “I’m not your doll, Damien.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer until the faint scent of his cologne filled the space between them. He looked down at her, his dark eyes intense. “You’re my wife.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
“And tonight,” Damien continued quietly, “everyone in that ballroom will be looking for signs this marriage is falling apart. If they believe we’re weak… they’ll destroy us.”
Sophia hated that he made sense.
The Harrington Charity Foundation Gala was dripping with obscene wealth. Beneath the massive crystal chandeliers, a live orchestra played a hauntingly beautiful waltz. Everything sparkled—from the endless flutes of champagne to the diamonds draping the necks of politicians, CEOs, and high-society socialites.
The moment Damien and Sophia walked through the double doors together, the ambient noise died.
The room went silent. Then, a wave of whispers swept through the crowd like wildfire.
“That’s Alex’s fiancée.”
“I can’t believe Damien married her.”
“It happened so fast.”
Before Sophia could process the stares, Charles Whitmore approached them. He held a glass of scotch, a flawless smile plastered on his face—one that didn’t reach his cold eyes.
“My condolences,” Charles said, nodding to Damien. Then, his predatory gaze shifted to Sophia. “And congratulations.”
The insult was perfectly disguised, a cruel reminder of how quickly she had been swapped from one brother to the next.
Sophia didn't flinch. She leaned in slightly and smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”
Charles blinked, his smile faltering. “I wasn’t sure which one you meant.”
“Exactly,” Sophia replied smoothly.
Several guests standing nearby struggled to hide their laughter, burying their faces in their drinks. For the first time since Sophia had met him, Charles looked genuinely irritated.
Damien noticed. A rare flicker of pride crossed his stony face before it disappeared entirely.
As they moved deeper into the crowd, Sophia leaned closer to him. “Everyone’s watching,” she whispered through a fixed smile.
Damien replied, “Then give them something to believe.”
He placed his hand firmly on her waist, pulling her flush against his side. Sophia went rigid, her muscles locking up.
“Relax,” he muttered under his breath.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Actually… no.”
Sophia glanced up at him. For the first time, she noticed the slight tremor in his jaw, the way his knuckles were white where he held his own glass. He wasn’t relaxed at all. He was tense. They weren't comfortable in this den of vipers; they were just hiding it better than everyone else.
Later into the night a waiter approached them smoothly, balancing a silver tray carrying two fresh glasses of champagne.
Damien took one glass, his eyes still scanning the room. Sophia reached out her hand for the other, her fingers just brushing the crystal stem.
Suddenly—
A hand slapped the glass right out of her fingers.
The flute flew sideways and shattered violently across the polished marble floor. The sharp crack echoed like a gunshot.
Everyone gasped, the music grinding to an awkward halt.
Sophia spun around, her heart in her throat. Damien had already stepped in front of her, placing his body firmly between her and the puddle of spilled alcohol. His face had gone completely pale, his eyes wide with a rare, visceral panic.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, grabbing his sleeve.
He didn’t answer her. He didn't even look at her. Instead, his gaze locked directly onto the terrified waiter, who had dropped to his knees to clean up the glass.
Damien stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice was ice cold, carrying across the dead-silent ballroom.
“Who told you to serve my wife that drink?”
The waiter began shaking violently, dropping a piece of broken glass. The entire ballroom fell into a suffocating, terrified silence.
- Writer
