Bound To The Man I Hated

Public Lies

I barely slept.

Every sound in the house felt unfamiliar—the quiet hum of the air conditioner, the distant echo of footsteps that weren’t mine. When morning finally came, it felt like relief.

I stepped out of my room and nearly collided with Ethan.

He was already dressed in a crisp suit, tie perfectly in place, coffee in hand. Like he’d slept peacefully. Like nothing about last night had changed his world.

“Good morning,” he said.

I hesitated. “Morning.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the ring on my finger.

“You have an appearance today,” he said. “My mother is hosting a brunch.”

Of course she was.

“When?” I asked.

“In an hour.”

I stared at him. “You could’ve warned me.”

“I am warning you.”

I exhaled sharply and turned back toward my room. “Fine.”

When I returned, dressed and composed, Ethan was waiting by the door. He glanced at me once—and then again.

Something unreadable passed through his eyes.

“You look… appropriate,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”

The drive was quiet, but his presence felt heavier than the silence. When we arrived, the house was already buzzing with voices and laughter.

The moment we stepped inside, his hand slipped around my waist.

The touch was warm. Steady.

Convincing.

I stiffened.

“Relax,” he murmured near my ear. “They’re watching.”

His family greeted us with smiles and polite curiosity. Compliments followed—about the wedding, about me, about how lucky we both were.

I smiled until my cheeks hurt.

Then his mother approached.

She studied me carefully before nodding in approval. “Ethan doesn’t usually bring people home.”

People.

I forced a smile. “I’m glad to be here.”

Throughout the brunch, Ethan stayed close. Too close. His hand brushed mine. His fingers rested on my back. He laughed softly at things I said that weren’t funny.

It felt real.

That was the problem.

When someone asked how we met, Ethan answered smoothly, without hesitation. A story I’d never heard, told like it was a memory he cherished.

I looked at him, startled.

He caught my gaze and gave a small smile.

A warning.

Or a promise.

Later, as we walked back to the car, I pulled my hand away.

“You didn’t tell me about the story,” I said quietly.

“You played your part well,” he replied. “That’s what matters.”

I stopped walking. “Does any of this matter to you at all?”

He turned, his expression unreadable again.

“Don’t confuse performance with truth, Ava.”

Then he opened the car door for me.

And for the first time since this began…

I wasn’t sure which of us was lying more.