Chapter 2: Veiled in Velvet
1473 Words
Serenity
You know it’s bad when your lipstick costs more than your dignity.
There were three people tugging at me—hair, makeup, wardrobe—each of them was acting like my body was a mannequin they forgot to steam. I sat in the middle of it all, mute and motionless, while hands yanked and pinned and powdered.
“This shade makes your jawline pop,” the makeup artist said, brushing something mauve and expensive across my mouth.
I didn’t respond.
She took it as an agreement.
A mirror sat in front of me, large and framed in gold, but I avoided my reflection like it owed me money. I already knew what I’d see: the version of me they wanted. Not too sexy. Not too shy. Chic but unthreatening. The kind of woman you could post on company socials without stirring gossip—or interest.
Luca’s wife.
God, that didn’t even sound real yet.
“We’re going to go with a low chignon,” the hair stylist said, already twisting strands into submission. “Soft, classic, and expensive.”
Expensive.
That was the word they kept using.
Never elegant. Never stunning or powerful or alive.
Just expensive.
As if that was the highest compliment a woman like me could get.
“Do you want to see the press draft before it goes out?” Jenna asked, entering like a shadow.
I finally looked at myself.
Velvet dress—dark green, off-the-shoulder, not too tight. Diamond studs in my ears. Hair sculpted into a perfect loop.
I looked like a bottle of vintage wine: admired from afar, and never opened.
“Sure,” I said, taking the tablet from her.
The headline was worse than expected.
“Billionaire Luca Vance Marries Longtime Family Friend in Private Ceremony”
Family friend? That lie had no spine.
I skimmed the copy. Strategic phrases peppered throughout—discreet union, mutual respect, long-standing understanding. All sanitized, scripted, and signed off by people who thought emotions were liabilities.
There wasn’t a single line about me. Not who I was. Not what I did.
Just... her.
The bride.
The velvet-clad accessory on the arm of New York’s most untouchable man.
“Are you okay with it?” Jenna asked, already checking her watch.
“Do I need to be?”
Her gaze flicked up. “Look, I know this wasn’t your dream wedding. But optics matter. This launch—”
“Marriage,” I corrected.
She hesitated. “Right. Marriage. Just... do what you agreed to. You’ll be fine.”
Fine.
That’s what everyone said when they didn’t want to deal with the mess underneath.
I nodded and handed back the tablet. “Let’s get it over with.”
The penthouse living room had been transformed. White roses lined the back wall. Photographers buzzed like flies. A backdrop with Luca’s charity foundation logo stood ready for photo ops.
He was already there.
Black suit. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to whisper power.
His eyes met mine across the room, unreadable as always. He gave a brief nod, then turned back to the PR team.
He hadn’t seen me yet. Not really.
Not that I wanted him to.
I was already tired. Already shrinking.
The stylist fluffed my hair one last time and stepped back. “You’re on.”
I stepped into the light.
Luca turned.
His gaze swept over me—quick, clinical. A scan.
“You look... appropriate,” he said.
Wow. I bet Shakespeare’s rolling in his grave from all that romantic tension.
“High praise,” I murmured.
He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.
“Stand here,” the photographer instructed, pointing to a spot beside Luca. “Closer.”
I took one step in.
Luca reached for my waist. Light touch. Zero warmth.
His hand rested just enough to look possessive in photos—but not real.
“Ready?”
Snap. Snap. Snap.
I tilted my chin. Pressed my lips into a faint smile. The kind you give when someone asks if you’re okay and the answer is absolutely not.
“You’re stiff,” the photographer said. “Relax a little.”
Right. Because it’s super chill standing next to a man who thinks intimacy is a liability.
Luca leaned in slightly. “It’ll be over soon.”
I don’t know why that pissed me off. Maybe because I didn’t need comfort. Maybe because the idea of us being something to endure made my stomach turn.
I smiled harder. “Looking forward to it.”
After the shoot, I slipped away before the interviews started.
Luca didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t stop me.
I found refuge in the guest room. Door closed. Shoes off. The silence felt thick enough to breathe.
The velvet dress clung to me like an obligation. I pulled it off and hung it on the back of a chair, leaving me in a slip and stockings.
The mirror by the bed caught me again.
This time, I looked.
Not at the hair or the flawless contour. Not at the jewelry or the posture.
I looked at my eyes.
And they looked tired.
Not just physically.
The kind of tiredness that comes from being useful for too long.
My phone buzzed again.
Dad: “We saw the release. You looked stunning.”
That word. Again.
Not happy. Not okay.
Just stunning.
Mom: “You made us proud. This will open doors for all of us.”
All of us.
I locked the screen. Threw the phone face-down.Because somewhere between signing that contract and standing under those lights, I’d become a door.
One they were all too eager to walk through.
There was a soft knock.
“Serenity?”
Luca.
I opened the door slowly, still in my slip, hair starting to loosen.
He didn’t blink.
“I wanted to check in,” he said.
“Why?”
He seemed caught off guard. Briefly. “It’s standard practice to—”
“Luca,” I interrupted. “You don’t have to pretend you care. We both signed up for a transaction.”
His jaw flexed. “That doesn’t mean I intend to humiliate you.”
“Too late.”
He looked at me then—not just glanced, he looked.
“Is this about the press release?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “It’s about being dressed up like a prize and paraded in front of cameras. It's about watching my name being erased in real time. It's about having people reshape me into something I barely recognize just to protect your brand.”
His voice was steady. “That’s the cost.”
I stared at him. “Of what?”
“Control.”
He said it like it was a virtue.
I stepped back. “Well, congrats. You’ve got it.”
He didn’t follow. Just nodded, once. “Dinner at eight. It’s just us.”
I didn’t answer.
I shut the door instead.
That night, I sat at the end of a long, glossy dining table while Luca scrolled through his phone between bites of steak.
I had a salad. Because of course I did.
“This arrangement,” he said eventually, “won’t require affection. What it requires is just appearances.”
“Thank God,” I muttered.
He paused. “But we should appear aligned.”
“Like matching furniture?”
He looked up. “Like business partners.”
I chewed slowly. Swallowed. “Right. Because nothing says romance like quarterly earnings and mutual benefit.”
“I’m not here to romance you,” he said. “I’m here to make sure we both get what we agreed to.”
“Which is?”
“My reputation stays intact. Your family stays afloat. And we keep our distance.”
I set my fork down. “Understood.”
He nodded. Like it was settled.
Like that was the end of it.
But something in me itched.
Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the memory of his hand on my waist earlier, cold and calculated.
Or maybe it was that no matter how detached he tried to be—he noticed everything.
The skipped meals. The way I flinched when the cameras flashed too close. The exact second my smile cracked.
I don’t think he meant to.
But he saw me.
And that scared the hell out of me.
Later, in the bathroom, I wiped off the makeup, layer by layer.
Each swipe of the cotton pad felt like peeling away someone else’s expectations.
But underneath it all—I was still here.
Still the girl who signed a contract to disappear.
Still the woman who couldn’t afford to break.
Not yet.
But soon.
Because eventually, something cracks.
Even velvet tears.
And when it does—
—I want to be ready.
- Writer
