Chapter Five: Media Frenzy — Public Appearances and Fake Smiles
1185 Words
Three days after the wedding, Alessia was already exhausted.
Not by the long nights or early mornings, or even the overwhelming luxury of her new life, but by the constant, smothering presence of the media. Every move she made, every word she spoke, and every smile she forced was carefully scrutinized by the world.
This wasn’t a marriage. It was a performance — and Alessia was the star of a show she never asked to join.
The headlines were relentless.
> THE MYSTERY BRIDE OF DAMIAN BLACKWOOD — WHO IS ALESSIA HART?
> BLACKWOOD'S SECRET LOVE STORY: FROM PRIVATE DEALS TO PUBLIC “I DOS”!
> CINDERELLA OR CONTRACT? SOCIAL MEDIA EXPLODES OVER BLACKWOOD'S NEW WIFE
The press ate it up. Social media turned her into a trending hashtag overnight. Fan pages popped up, some obsessed with her beauty, others skeptical of the story. Rumors swirled about her past — that she was a model, a dancer, a gold digger, a spy.
And all the while, Alessia played along.
Her days were packed with scheduled appearances — charity galas, press interviews, luncheons with New York’s elite. Her wardrobe was curated down to the color palette, chosen to match Damian’s suits and public image. Her speech was monitored by a publicist. Even her smiles were rehearsed.
She was coached on how to look lovingly at Damian during interviews, how to pretend they shared whispered secrets when cameras snapped, how to hold his hand just right — not too stiff, not too affectionate.
The first public event was the Annual Blackwood Foundation Gala — a black-tie affair held in a luxury hotel downtown, attended by the who’s-who of Wall Street, politicians, celebrities, and society’s elite.
Alessia stepped onto the red carpet in a form-fitting sapphire gown that shimmered with every step. Her heels clicked confidently, though inside, her stomach twisted.
Damian stood beside her, tall and commanding in a tailored tux. His expression was unreadable, as always — the cool mask of a man who’d made billion-dollar deals and never blinked.
As they approached the photographers, he leaned in close — not in affection, but to remind her, “Remember the choreography.”
Smile. Pause. Turn. Glance at each other. Laugh softly. Move on.
She obeyed. Like clockwork.
The cameras flashed like lightning, capturing every angle. Reporters shouted questions:
“Alessia, how does it feel to be Mrs. Blackwood?”
“Was it love at first sight?”
“When did you know he was ‘The One’?”
She smiled, her lips trembling only slightly. “He challenged me. And I liked that.”
Damian gave a polite smirk. “She’s more than she looks. That’s all I’ll say.”
The reporters ate it up.
Inside the ballroom, Alessia clutched a champagne flute and smiled through conversations she didn’t care for, while Damian networked with powerful investors and politicians. She was introduced as “Damian’s beautiful wife,” and everyone had the same polite admiration in their eyes — not for her, but for the image of her. The perfect billionaire’s bride.
She was a symbol. An ornament.
Later, seated at their table during dinner, she leaned toward him. “Is this what my life will be? One staged event after another?”
Damian sipped his wine, not looking at her. “This is the life you agreed to.”
“And what about yours?” she whispered. “Does any of this mean anything to you?”
He finally met her gaze. “Meaning is dangerous. We keep things clean. Controlled.”
She didn’t reply. There was no point.
Over the next week, more events followed.
An interview on morning television, where they sat side-by-side on a plush couch and fielded easy questions from a smiling host.
“How did you two meet?”
Damian replied smoothly, “In Milan. She was there for an art exhibit. I was there on business. Our paths crossed.”
“And the connection? Instant?”
He smiled, barely. “Unexpected. But yes.”
Alessia added, “He made me feel seen.”
Lies, wrapped in velvet.
After the cameras cut, Damian offered her a napkin to blot her lipstick. “You hesitated when she asked about Milan.”
“I was trying to remember our fake story,” she said coolly. “It’s hard to keep the fiction straight.”
His jaw ticked. “Get it straight. The press is watching everything.”
And they were.
Papparazzi followed them in tinted SUVs. Drones hovered near the penthouse windows. Blogs dissected her wardrobe choices, her body language, even the way she stood beside her husband. A close-up photo of Damian lightly touching her back went viral, captioned with: *"Real love or brilliant PR?"*
She couldn’t even grocery shop anymore. Not that she needed to — the penthouse staff kept the kitchen stocked. But it was the principle. Her old life — the one where she could walk freely through a park, order pizza in her pajamas, cry on a bench without someone snapping a picture — was gone.
She had stepped into a golden cage.
At home, she and Damian barely spoke beyond what was necessary. They lived on opposite ends of the penthouse, shared nothing but the spotlight.
And yet, the proximity was maddening.
Sometimes, she’d catch him on a call late at night, shirt unbuttoned, voice low and commanding. Or she’d see him reading quietly in the rooftop garden, a shadow of humanity flickering across his otherwise stone-like exterior.
He was distant, but not cruel. Cold, but not heartless.
And that confused her more than anything.
One night, after a charity auction, they returned to the penthouse later than usual. Alessia kicked off her heels and rubbed her aching feet as Damian poured a drink at the bar.
She asked, “Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“This.” She gestured around them. “The show. The appearances. The fake life.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Because the world expects something from me. And expectations are easier to manage than emotions.”
She frowned. “That’s... sad.”
“It’s strategic.”
“You keep saying that. Like feelings are weaknesses.”
He turned to face her. “In my world, they are.”
A pause. Silence stretched again.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he added, almost to himself.
And before she could ask more, he turned and walked to his wing of the penthouse.
The conversation haunted her.
So did the way he said it — not like a man defending his choices, but like one trying to forget them.
The media frenzy didn’t stop. But Alessia began to see the cracks in Damian’s armor. The way he clenched his fist when cameras got too close. The way his smile didn’t reach his eyes. The way he lingered in silence after interviews, as if unsure of who he was pretending to be.
Maybe she wasn’t the only one trapped in this performance.
Maybe, just maybe, the billionaire wasn’t
as unshakable as he seemed.
- Writer
