EPISODE FOUR
1135 Words
The room hummed like a living thing. Music, glasses, low laughter. Camera flashes. Perfume. Heat that smelled like money.
Aurora stood by a huge floral tower because it felt like cover. Her fingers kept worrying the strap of her clutch. The red dress did what a red dress does — it made you obvious. It hugged places she usually kept private. It announced her. That was the worst part. Being announced.
She heard the voice before she turned. Smooth, the kind that slides in close like it owns the space.
“You must be the new Mrs. Reynolds.”
She turned. A man in gray, suit sharp, grin too easy. Name tag: Derrick Voss. Julian had said the name in the car. He’d said it like he was reciting a list.
“I’ve heard a lot,” he said, stepping closer than manners allowed.
Aurora forced the right smile. “I hope it was good things.”
He reached out like he’d touch a piece of art. A casual brush on the wrist. Too casual. Too private.
Her skin crawled. She tried to step back but the crowd pressed in. She didn’t get far.
“Mr. Voss—” she started.
“Relax,” he said. The word felt like ownership, like a hand on a set of keys. “I’m only talking.”
His fingers closed. Not hard. Not enough. But wrong. So wrong.
“Enough,” a voice said.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be loud. It cut clean.
Liam was there. Calm. Too calm. He moved as if sound obeyed him. People gave them space. The music seemed to thin.
“Mr. Voss,” Liam said. The words were a blade wrapped in silk. “This is not your place.”
Derrick tried to laugh it off. “Liam, mate—”
“Leave,” Liam said. No theatrics. No yelling. Just a sentence. A command. A thing that folded the air.
Derrick’s smile vanished. He stepped back. He let her wrist go. He drifted away like a bad scent.
Liam closed the space between them in two steps. His hand caught her wrist, steady and firm. Not rough. Not cruel. Protective in a way that made her pulse knock at her ribs.
“You alright?” he asked, voice low
“No.” She tried to make it a whisper. “I’m fine.”
He watched the faint red where his fingers had been on her skin. The expression that crossed his face was quick. Too quick. A shadow. A shutter closing.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” he said.
“I wasn’t—” she started.
“Then stay close to me.” He didn’t say it like an order. He said it like fact. Like made law.
For the rest of the evening his presence was an invisible rope. He guided. He blocked. When cameras called his name he pulled her in closer, the two of them framed as a single portrait. When a reporter leaned forward, he answered — crisp, corporate. No softness. Except when he leaned in and said, “Ignore it,” and his breath hit her ear.
She felt it then. The smallness of her chest when he touched her. The ridiculous, confusing warmth.
Was it for the cameras? She kept asking herself. Play-acting? Or — God — was it something else?
Hours slid by. The glitter thinned. People left in small clusters. Outside, flashes were relentless; the driveway was a line of living bulbs.
He guided her through the press like he was moving a fragile object. Not hurried, patient — careful.
In the car, the city blurred. The driver drove slow. The silence stretched.
“Thank you,” she said. Small. Belated.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at the road. Then, flat: “It was necessary.”
“Because people watched?”
He glanced at her reflection. “Because I don’t like strangers touching what’s mine.”
His mouth didn’t move like he was flirting. It was a claim. Cold. Possessive. And something in it made her stomach ache.
They rode the rest of the way without voices. She tried to keep her thoughts tidy but they kept slipping. Wanting. Not wanting. Scared. Not scared. Everything felt messy.
Back at the house, she took off the shoes with fingers that trembled. He shrugged his coat off, set it down, paused like he might say something then didn’t. He walked away but stopped in the hall.
“Don’t forget your medication before bed,” he called, not looking back.
She blinked. “You remembered?”
“I do.” His voice was small. Not for the room. For her.
He left. The sound of his steps faded. She was alone in a quiet big house, and her chest felt like a small thing in a great room.
---
Julian needed coffee. Bad. He pushed into a diner, tied and frayed. He slid into a booth and there she was — a girl with a book and tired eyes — the same voice he’d heard on the phone when he arranged a time. Arianna.
“Can you pass the sugar?” she asked like it was the most normal thing in the world.
He handed it over. He sat, and for a while they talked about small stuff — homework, schedules, how the coffee tasted bitter. He liked the normal. He had no idea she was the sister of the woman whose picture he’d seen pasted everywhere.
She laughed at a joke he didn’t mean to tell. It made his chest loosen. He stayed longer than he meant to.
Fate has odd little ways of collapsing distance, he thought, stirring his cup.
---
High above, Sophia sat with a glass, watching. Her smile was practiced, like a blade sharpened for optics. A man beside her, neat suit, quiet laugh, watched the same feed with interest.
An editor hovered in the doorway, phone in hand. “We have the clip,” he said. “The moment he held her — it’s getting hits. We have a headline ready that’ll—”
He cleared his throat and read it out like a benediction:
“Aurora Reynolds: The Woman Who Bought a Marriage — Inside Liam’s Loveless Union.”
Sophia’s smile deepened. She toyed with her glass.
“Upload?” the editor asked.
She raised her chin, easy. “Upload."
The screen glowed. Notifications popped. The first trickle was already a current.
---
Miles away, Aurora lay awake in a bed that wasn’t hers yet, the word mine still humming in her ears. She could not sleep. She could not put the night away.
Tomorrow. She knew it would be louder tomorrow.
And somewhere, someone hit send.
The first wave was on its way.
- Writer
