My Surreal Marriage: Life with a Billionaire

Chapter 11

The strobes exploded like a thousand miniature suns, filling the massive studio with a searing, blinding light. It was an assault on the senses, an aggression that couldn't be ignored. The air was thick with the chemical sweetness of hairspray, the starchy scent of new fabric, and the faintest undercurrent of expensive cosmetics mingling with the sweat of nervous tension.

I stood before a false wall of artificial roses and LED strips, clad in an ivory-white wedding gown that cost a fortune, its every inch adorned with handmade lace and crystals. I felt like a sacrificial lamb, meticulously prepared for the altar. The layers of the skirt were as heavy as if lined with lead, and the tight bodice made every breath a careful, stinging effort. My face was a mask, caked in heavy foundation, exquisite but rigid.

Lucas stood beside me. His impeccably tailored black tuxedo only accentuated his tall, severe frame. His face was a blank canvas, his gray-blue eyes staring straight into the massive lens before us, as vacant as two pools of frozen water. The photographer, a man with a wild beard and a flamboyant vest, buzzed around us excitedly. The rapid-fire clicks of his camera shutter were a relentless drumbeat against my frayed nerves.

“Perfect! Beautiful couple!” the photographer boomed with theatrical praise. “Okay, Mr. Grayson, now, could you just… loosen up a tiny bit? Maybe put your arm around your lovely bride’s waist? A little affection? This is your wedding shoot, not a corporate board meeting!”

Lucas’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, as if he’d been given an utterly unreasonable command. With a slow, robotic precision, he lifted his arm and draped it around my waist.

His hand was large and cool. Through the layers of tulle and lace, it landed squarely on the curve of my hip. The touch had no warmth, no pressure—only a sense of precise placement, like a tool being slotted into its designated housing. My body went rigid, as if struck by a low-voltage current.

“Closer! Bring her closer!” the photographer directed. “Look into each other’s eyes! Like you mean it! Like you can’t live without each other!”

Lucas complied, his arm tightening just enough to pull me a few inches toward him. The distance between us vanished. His scent—cold cedarwood and a faint hint of aftershave—enveloped me. I was forced to tilt my head up, my gaze colliding with his. There were still no ripples in those gray-blue depths, no warmth. Only a profound indifference and a flicker of something I couldn't quite name… resistance? It was like staring at an ice wall, impenetrable and cold.

I searched desperately for a hint of a “groom’s” affection in that frozen landscape, even a rehearsed one, but found nothing. My own eyes, I was sure, reflected only my undisguised anxiety and the cornered panic of an animal in a trap.

The shutter clicked madly, capturing our fraudulent intimacy.

“Mr. Grayson! A smile! Please! A smile! Not a grimace! Think of something happy! Like… like your company’s stock price hitting a new high today!” The photographer’s voice was tinged with exasperated humor.

The corner of Lucas’s mouth twitched upward. The arc was minuscule, impossibly stiff, and gone in an instant. It wasn’t a smile; it was more like a facial tic, a brief spasm from a misfired command. The photographer lowered his camera, wiping a hand across his sweat-free brow with an exaggerated sigh. He shook his head at his assistant, who was trying to stifle a laugh. “Man, I’ve shot CEOs, actors, politicians, but this one… he makes a cardboard cutout look expressive. It’s like posing with a high-tech projection screen. All pixels, no pulse.”

His voice was just loud enough to reach my ears.

A projection screen. Yes, that’s exactly what it felt like.

Lucas Grayson, the man standing beside me, my soon-to-be husband in name only, was giving a masterclass in what it meant to be a cold-blooded machine. He efficiently executed the scripted actions of a “groom”—arm around waist, pull closer, meet gaze—but refused to output any corresponding emotional data. His very presence was the most blatant mockery of this marital contract.

A wave of profound exhaustion and absurdity washed over me. For my father’s medical bills, I had not only to walk into this cage but to perform this nauseating pantomime of affection under the glare of the spotlight. I tore my gaze from his and stared blankly at the fake rose petals behind the photographer.

***

When a break was finally called, I all but fled to the dressing room. I locked the door behind me, leaning my back against the cool wood as I let out a long, silent breath.

The mirror reflected a face with perfect makeup but exhausted eyes. It looked like a mask that had been handled one too many times. I went to the sink, turned on the tap, and ran the icy water over my wrists, again and again, trying to wash away the lingering discomfort from his touch.

That’s when I heard it. A voice, so faint and yet so utterly out of place in this cold, sterile environment. It was warm, and it drifted in broken fragments from the room next door—Lucas’s temporary lounge.

“…Yes, I know, sweetheart… Did you finish all your math problems? That’s great…”

That voice… it was deep and soft, laced with a patience and warmth I’d never heard from him. It was almost… doting. Like the first trickle of meltwater from thawing ice in spring.

I froze, forgetting to even turn off the water. Was that Lucas? Impossible. The “projection screen”? The “cold-blooded machine”?

Compelled by some unseen force, I held my breath and tiptoed toward the adjoining door, which was slightly ajar. Peeking through the narrow c***k, I saw Lucas sitting on an armchair with his back to me. His imposing silhouette seemed softer in the faint glow of his phone screen. He was holding it up, angled toward his face.

On the screen was the cherubic face of a little girl, maybe seven or eight years old, with two lopsided pigtails and wide, sparkling eyes that seemed to hold all the stars in the sky. She was chattering away, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Uncle Lucas! Uncle Lucas! Look! I drew a picture of you and me! And Mr. Whiskers!” the girl’s bright, bubbly voice chirped, full of childish charm.

The harsh lines of Lucas’s profile softened in the light of the screen. His lips, usually pressed into a firm, unyielding line, were curved into a clear, warm, and genuine smile. This wasn’t the stiff performance for the camera; this was pure, unadulterated joy. The frost in his gray-blue eyes had melted completely, replaced by an affection so deep it threatened to spill over as he gazed at the little figure on the screen.

“Really? Let me see, my little artist,” he murmured, his voice a low, indulgent rumble. “Oh, you made me so handsome. And you got Mr. Whiskers’s big tail just right! Did he steal any of your fish crackers today?”

“No! He was a good boy today!” the little girl declared, puffing out her chest proudly. “Uncle Lucas, when are you coming to see me? You promised to take me to the new planetarium!”

“Soon, sweetheart, I promise,” Lucas’s voice was so gentle it could have been liquid honey, his eyes swimming in adoration. “As soon as I’m done with things here, I’ll come see you this weekend. And I’ll bring your favorite strawberry ice cream, okay?”

“Yay! Pinky promise!” The little girl held up her tiny finger to the screen.

Without hesitation, Lucas lifted his own pinky, making a hooking motion in the air toward her on-screen finger. His smile deepened. “Pinky promise. Now, it’s time for my little princess to get to bed, or you’ll be sleepy in class tomorrow. Goodnight, have sweet dreams.”

“Night night, Uncle Lucas! Love you!” she said sweetly, blowing a kiss before the screen went dark.

The call ended.