Bound by Contract, Owned by Hate

Our Public Performance

Chapter 9

(Sophia's POV)

The Met Gala was one thing.

Controlled. Scripted. A single night with a clear beginning and end.

What came after was something else entirely.

The morning headlines had done their job almost too well.

By the time I arrived at Laurent Luxe, our photograph was on the front page of four major publications, two lifestyle blogs had already published full breakdowns of my gown and someone had started a fan account dedicated entirely to what they were calling the romance of the season.

Lila met me at the elevator with coffee and the expression of someone trying very hard not to enjoy themselves.

"Stock is up another four points," she said.

"Good morning to you too."

"The Hargrove account called. They want to reschedule their meeting to coincide with your fairy tale media moment."

I took the coffee. "Book it."

My office felt steadier than the penthouse.

Here I knew exactly who I was. What I'd built. What mattered.

Here, last night was just a decision I'd made and would not be making again.

I almost believed that.

By ten o'clock I had three interviews requested, a feature proposal from a lifestyle magazine wanting to cover our first month as newlyweds.

The performance was working.

Which meant it needed to keep working.

I pulled up my calendar and blocked the next four weeks.

Every public appearance. Every event. Every carefully curated moment that would tell the story we needed the world to believe.

My phone buzzed.

Xander.

"We have a lunch. The Carlyle. Twelve-thirty. Wear something that photographs well."

I stared at the message for a long moment.

Typed back: "Good morning to you too."

Three dots appeared immediately.

Then: "You're already trending. Don't be late."

I set the phone down.

Picked out the ivory wrap dress hanging on the back of my office door that I'd brought for exactly this kind of ambush.

Because with Xander Voss, I was learning quickly, you stayed two steps ahead or you fell behind entirely.

The Carlyle was exactly the kind of place designed to make people feel observed.

Which was precisely why he'd chosen it.

He was already seated when I arrived, dark suit, no tie, looking like he belonged in every room he'd ever entered. Two journalists I recognized from the Post were at a corner table pretending not to watch us.

He stood when he saw me.

That surprised me.

"You're on time," he said quietly, pulling out my chair.

"You sound surprised."

"I'm adaptable."

We sat. The performance began without discussion, it always did now, I was realizing. Some unspoken choreography we'd fallen into without rehearsal.

His hand covered mine on the table. Light. Deliberate. For the room.

I turned my hand over and laced my fingers through his.

Two could play.

His eyes flicked to mine briefly.

Something unreadable there.

Lunch moved efficiently. We ordered. We spoke carefully about things that sounded intimate and revealed nothing real. He was good at this, better than I'd expected. His public warmth was convincing enough that twice I had to remind myself it was constructed.

Over dessert neither of us touched, he leaned closer.

"Board meeting Friday," he said, voice low. "Victor will be there. Don't react to anything he says about Laurent."

Victor.

The name landed with quiet weight.

"What is he likely to say?" I asked, keeping my expression soft for the room.

"Nothing that's meant for your benefit." His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand. Still performing. "He's testing how much I've told you."

"And how much have you told me?"

A pause.

"Not enough yet," he said.

The honesty of it caught me off guard.

I looked at him then, really looked, past the performance, past the careful control.

There was something underneath it today.

Weight. Preoccupation.

Something he was carrying that hadn't been there yesterday.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

The question surprised us both.

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

"Don't do that," he said quietly.

"Do what?"

"Ask questions you actually want answers to. Not here."

The journalists were watching.

I smiled like he'd said something charming.

Inside, something quietly rearranged itself.

Because he hadn't said 'don't ask.'

He'd said 'not here.'

Which meant somewhere else, he might actually answer.

That was new.

And I didn't know yet whether to file it under warning or possibility.

The car took us back uptown in silence.

At the curb outside Laurent Luxe he stepped out with me, unnecessary, unscripted.

A photographer across the street caught it.

He straightened my collar once, briefly and said nothing.

Just looked at me for a moment in the pale afternoon light.

Then got back in the car.

I watched it pull away.

The performance was working.

The problem was, some of it was starting to feel less like performance.

And I had absolutely no idea what to do with that.