Chapter 4: A Living Portrait
1375 Words
Serenity
He didn’t even look at me.
Not once.
Not when I stepped out of the car. Not when the cameras started flashing. Not even when a reporter shouted, “Mrs. Vance, is it love or business?” like it was a clever joke.
Luca kept his gaze straight ahead, expression fixed in that billionaire neutral—just enough charisma to be watchable, just enough detachment to be untouchable.
I stood beside him like a hired statue in borrowed heels.
Smiling.
Always smiling.
Because that’s what I was trained to do.
The gala was being held at the Grand Astoria—a place so old money it made new money sweat. Crystal chandeliers, gold trim, floor-length gowns, and eyes like knives.
I took one step inside and felt my spine tighten.
Not because of the dress—it fit perfectly. Not because of the crowd—I’d practiced this my whole life.
But because I knew I didn’t belong here.
Not really.
“Straight to the top floor,” Jenna said, brushing invisible lint off my sleeve before vanishing into the crowd. “You’ll make your entrance with him in exactly three minutes.”
Your entrance.
Not your moment.
Not your night.
Just... another step in the choreography.
I followed Luca toward the stairs, the hem of my gown whispering over marble.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak.
The silence between us felt louder than the strings playing from the balcony above.
“Is there a reason you brought me?” I asked quietly as we climbed.
His eyes didn’t leave the path ahead. “We’re married.”
“That didn’t stop you from ignoring me all day.”
Finally, he glanced at me. Cool. Calm. “You said you needed space.”
That was yesterday.
And I hadn’t asked for invisibility.
When we stepped into the ballroom, the spotlight found us instantly.
People turned. Murmured. Smiled with their teeth.
I took Luca’s arm out of reflex.
He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t lean in either.
We stood there, a perfectly dressed illusion. Him in black tailored lines. Me in soft champagne satin.
Two pieces of art. Carefully curated. Lovelessly hung.
“Luca!”
A woman approached us with the kind of confidence that always comes with generational wealth. Blonde. Sharp. The kind of face that had never been ignored a day in its life.
“Veronica,” Luca said smoothly, releasing my arm to greet her.
My arm fell to my side like it was never held in the first place.
I stepped back. Half a step. Maybe less.
But it felt like miles.
“You must be Serenity,” she said, giving me the once-over without bothering to hide it. “You’re... lovely.”
The pause said everything else.
I smiled. “Thank you. You’re very... confident.”
Her eyebrows lifted. Luca smirked—but just a flicker.
I’d take it.
“I was just telling Luca how impressive the merger was,” she continued, slipping her hand onto his arm like it belonged there. “A brilliant move.”
Merger. Brilliant. Right.
So that’s what we were now—just another asset folded into his empire.
Luca didn’t correct her.
He didn’t even glance my way.
I excused myself before the nausea became visible.
The hallway outside was quieter.
Not silent—but blessedly free of pointed smiles and champagne-fueled commentary.
I leaned against the wall and took a breath.
One.
Two.
Then—
“Don’t take it personally.”
I turned.
What I saw was an older woman—regal in a navy gown, there were diamonds at her throat—stood nearby, watching me with a mix of sympathy and calculation.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“The way they treat you. The way he treats you. It’s not about you, dear.”
I blinked. “Do I know you?”
She smiled. “No. But I know the role.”
That stung more than I expected.
She stepped closer. “You’re the wife. The picture. The living portrait.”
I stared at her.
She tilted her head. “You’re lovely, truly. But don’t forget—you’re part of the frame. Not the painting.”
And then she walked away.
Just like that.
Dropped a truth-bomb and left me standing in the fallout.
Back inside, Luca was holding a glass of scotch and listening to an older man talk about stocks or strategies or some other thing no one at this party genuinely cared about.
He didn’t notice I’d left.
Or if he did, he didn’t care.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t even surprised.
I crossed the room, grabbed a glass of champagne off a tray, and parked myself by the window like the skyline had something new to say.
It wasn’t.
I knew every building by name now. I could probably draw them from memory.
What I couldn’t draw was the last time I felt seen.
Not noticed.
Seen.
“Did you enjoy your escape?”
I turned.
Luca. Of course.
I lifted my glass. “Thrilled. Got cornered by a stranger who reminded me I’m decorative.”
His brow twitched. “Who?”
I shrugged. “Don’t worry. She meant it kindly. Said I was part of the frame.”
He stared at me, jaw tight.
“I get it,” I said before he could respond. “This is the deal. Show up. Smile. Look like I belong.”
“You do belong.”
I laughed. Quiet, bitter. “You say that, but you haven’t looked at me all night. Not really.”
He didn’t answer.
So I kept going.
“You brought me here. Dressed me up. Didn’t say a word. Let other people talk to me like I wasn’t in the room.”
Still nothing.
“I didn’t sign up to be ignored and not cared for,” I said, my voice low but firm. “Yeah, I agreed to the contract, but does that mean I have stopped being a person, Luca.”
Now he looked at me. Really looked.
There was something in his eyes I couldn’t name. Not guilt. Not regret.
But maybe… surprise?
Like he hadn’t expected me to care.
Like he hadn’t expected me to expect anything.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said finally.
And that? That hurt more than any headline.
“Well,” I whispered, setting down my untouched champagne, “it does.”
We didn’t speak for the rest of the night.
We smiled.
We nodded.
We posed.
But we didn’t speak.
In the car ride home, the silence returned.
But it was different now.
Not clean. Not composed.
It had edges.
And under it, something sharper was forming.
Not anger.
Resolve.
Because if I was just a living portrait—
Then it was time I started painting something real.
I stepped into the penthouse first, heels in hand, coat draped over my arm.
Luca followed.
I turned to him. “Don’t wait up.”
He hesitated. “Where are you going?”
I stared at him. “To remember who I was before all of this.”
Then I walked down the hall and closed the door of my bedroom .
Not gently.
Inside, I peeled off the gown and dropped it on the floor.
No more careful folding.
No more playing perfect.
I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up, and for the first time in weeks—
Let myself feel the full weight of being forgotten.
But even through the ache, I made a promise to myself.
This wouldn’t be my story forever.
I’d rewrite it.
And if Luca Vance wanted to stay on the sidelines—
That was his loss.
My phone buzzed.
One new message.
Unknown Number: “I saw the way he looked at her tonight. You deserve better.”
Attached?
A close-up shot of Luca and Veronica.
His hand rested lightly on her back. She is leaning in.
Both of them were smiling.
Like I didn’t exist.
Like I wasn’t standing ten feet away.
I stared at the screen, heart thudding.
Then slowly… I hit save.
Because now it wasn’t just about me.
Now it was about the truth.
And what I’d do with it.
- Writer
