The wife he never loved.

The applause sounded hollow, like the echo inside a crypt. Camila Alvarez stood in the middle of the De La Cruz ballroom, her white gown fitted like armor, suffocating and heavy under the golden light of chandeliers. The string quartet played a waltz that was far too elegant for a ceremony that felt more like a funeral. Everyone watched her, smiling their shallow, painted smiles, whispering behind jeweled hands. She knew what they were thinking. “Poor girl. She looks beautiful, but she’s nothing but a pawn”. Her new husband, Alejandro De La Cruz, stood beside her, towering in his black suit, perfect and merciless. He didn’t reach for her hand. He didn’t lean down for the kiss that the priest announced. He only offered a curt nod, his lips curving in the faintest smirk, as though he found the whole ordeal amusing. When the priest said, “You may kiss the bride,” Alejandro looked at her and then turned away. The cameras flashed, catching every moment. The papers tomorrow would call it a union of power, of bloodlines, of business. But Camila knew the truth. This wasn’t a marriage. It was a transaction. The ballroom emptied after the toasts, after the wine, after the polite laughter. Camila felt like a mannequin on display as strangers congratulated her, some offering fake warmth, others smug in their pity. When the last guest left, Alejandro didn’t offer his arm. He simply walked ahead, expecting her to follow. She did. Her heels clicked against the marble floors as they climbed the wide staircase. The house,now their house stretched wide and cold, filled with portraits of stern ancestors who seemed to glare down at her from their golden frames. At the end of the hallway, Alejandro stopped before a pair of massive double doors. He pushed them open without ceremony, revealing a lavish bedroom, hers. “This is where you’ll stay,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, and sharp as glass. Camila stepped into the room, letting her eyes sweep over the velvet curtains, the king sized bed, the gilded mirror that reflected her pale face. It was a room meant for a queen, but it felt like a cage. “And you?” she asked, turning to face him. His mouth curved not in a smile, but in something darker. “My room is down the hall. I don’t share my bed with strangers.” A stab of something cold ran through her chest. Still, Camila lifted her chin, refusing to show weakness. “Good. Because I don’t sleep with men who are already in love with someone else.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Be careful, Camila.” “Why?” Her voice was soft, but her words cut. “Will you punish me?” For the first time, his mask slipped. A flicker of heat crossed his gaze, so quick she almost missed it. Almost. He stepped closer. The air in the room shifted, thickening until her breath caught in her throat. Alejandro stood tall, his shoulders broad, his presence swallowing the space. “You’re bold for a bride who knows nothing about the world she’s stepped into,” he murmured. “And you’re arrogant for a man who thinks money makes him a god,” she replied calmly. The silence stretched, sharp and crackling. Later, alone, Camila stood by the balcony, the Barcelona skyline glittering like a sea of fireflies below. The city was alive, but she felt hollow, watching it all from her new prison. She had shed her gown, now standing in a silk slip that clung to her curves, her dark hair tumbling freely over her shoulders. She thought she was alone until the door opened. She turned. Alejandro stepped in, sleeves rolled up, his tie gone, his shirt open at the collar. His jaw looked even sharper in the dim light, his eyes unreadable shadows. “You didn’t knock,” she said. His gaze swept over her body, slow and deliberate. “It’s my house.” “Then you should learn manners. Even kings knock before they enter their queen’s chamber.” He let out a low chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “Queen?” He walked further in. “Don’t flatter yourself, Camila. You’re a contract. A body with a name. Nothing more.” Her chest tightened, but she didn’t let him see the sting. “Then why are you here?” He stopped just inches from her. The heat of his body reached her before his hand did. He raised it slowly, tracing his fingers along the curve of her jaw. The touch was possessive, rough, nothing like tenderness. “Because,” he said lowly, his breath warm against her cheek, “I don’t like being challenged.” Camila’s lips parted. She wanted to step back, but her pride kept her rooted. His eyes were locked on hers, dark, dangerous, as if he was trying to decide whether to destroy her or devour her. “You may wear my ring, Camila,” he whispered, his hand sliding to her waist, gripping her firmly. “But don’t think for a second you’ve fooled me. I know there’s fire in you. Secrets. Plans. You want power.” Her heart raced, but she forced her voice to stay steady. “Maybe. Or maybe I just want to survive you.” Something flickered in his gaze. Lust, anger, something unnameable. His hand tightened against her waist. Then, slowly, his mouth lowered toward her ear. “You’ll never be my wife in anything but name, Camila” he said, his tone smooth as sin. His lips brushed her skin, his grip pulling her closer until she could feel the raw strength in his body. In “And I’m going to remind you of that.” He turned to leave, footsteps echoing sharply against the marble floor. But just as he reached the door, his phone slipped from his pocket and clattered softly to the ground. Camila’s eyes caught the faint wallpaper on his phone. It was a woman. He picked his phone without a word and walked out. Camila sat down, silent, her thoughts racing. Who was she?