Substitute Bride for the Iceberg: Trapped in a billionaire's game

CHAPTER 14

SERAPHINA’S POV

The car slowed in front of the Metropolitan Museum. Cameras flashed like fireworks the second the door opened. I froze for half a second, heart slamming against my ribs.

Killian offered his arm, voice low right next to my ear. “Remember your promise. Smile like you mean it, Isabella.”

I slipped my hand through his arm and forced the smile—the bright, confident one my sister used to wear so easily. The gown hugged me too tight, the heels too high, everything chosen to make me look like her. Lights blinded me as we stepped onto the red carpet. Whispers followed us. “That’s the new Mrs. Vane.” “She looks different tonight…”

My stomach twisted. I was hyper-aware of every step, every camera click, terrified I’d slip and someone would see the real me—the shadow cellist who belonged in the orchestra pit, not on this stage.

Inside, the gala was blinding. Crystal chandeliers, live orchestra playing softly, powerful people in designer everything laughing and networking. Killian kept his hand at my waist, guiding me through the crowd like I was an extension of him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Vane,” a man in a tux said, shaking Killian’s hand. “Congratulations on the marriage. Your wife is lovely.”

“Thank you,” Killian answered smoothly, pulling me closer. “She’s been the best thing to happen to me.”

I smiled wider, leaning into him like the adoring wife I was supposed to be. “It’s wonderful to be here,” I said, voice soft and warm. “Killian’s told me so much about all of you.”

The words tasted like ash, but I kept them coming. Small talk about the charity, compliments on dresses, polite laughter at jokes I barely heard. Every time someone called me Isabella or asked about our “whirlwind romance,” I felt the lie settle heavier in my chest. I hated it. I hated how good I was getting at it.

Killian seemed pleased. His hand stayed possessively on my waist, thumb occasionally brushing my side through the fabric. It wasn’t gentle. It was a reminder. Every time our eyes met, there was that sharp edge from earlier—the anger mixed with something darker I couldn’t name.

Then she appeared.

Victoria Lang glided over in a backless red dress, smile sharp as a knife. She was everything the tabloids loved—glamorous, confident, and clearly familiar with my husband.

“Killian, darling,” she purred, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Marriage clearly suits you. You look incredible.”

She turned to me with a sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Isabella, you seem… quieter than usual tonight. Everything alright? The newlywed glow is a little dim.”

I felt a nasty little stab in my chest. Jealousy? No way. It had to be the stress. I forced a laugh, tilting my head toward Killian. “Just taking it all in. Being married to this man is a full-time job, you know?”

Killian’s hand tightened slightly on my waist. “Victoria,” he said, voice cool but polite. “Good to see you. How’s the new venture going?”

“Oh, wonderful. You should come by the office sometime. We miss your input.” She touched his arm, lingering a second too long. “Remember that trip to the Hamptons last summer? We should do it again. Bring your wife, of course.”

I smiled through it, but my jaw ached. “That sounds lovely. I’d love to hear more about your work, Victoria.”

The conversation stretched, her digs wrapped in sugar, Killian staying perfectly calm while keeping me glued to his side. The jealousy burned hotter than I wanted to admit. Not because I cared about him—but because I was stuck playing this role while she got to be herself.

Later, during a lull between dances, Killian pulled me onto the terrace. The city lights sparkled below. He turned me to face him, hand on my lower back.

“You’re doing well,” he said quietly. “But don’t push me again after today’s little adventure. I let you have your taste of freedom. Remember who you belong to.”

His gaze held mine, intense and unreadable. For a split second I felt that confusing pull again—fear mixed with something warmer I didn’t want to name. His hand pressed firmer against my back. The air between us crackled.

Before I could answer, his assistant appeared at the terrace door. “Sir, there’s a message for Mrs. Vane.”

Killian took the note and handed it to me. My blood ran cold as I read the short text. It was from an unknown number, but the meaning was clear—something about Isabella and the debt, a vague threat that things could get worse if I slipped up.

I forced a smile for the passing photographers as we stepped back inside, but my hands were ice.

How much longer can I keep this up before everything falls apart?

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