Married To The Enemy

PUBLIC SECRETS

Zara stared at the mirror, trying to steady her hands as she applied the final touch of mascara. Her stomach was a mess of nerves, and the reason stood somewhere in the suite behind her—Lucas Thorne, her temporary husband and permanent headache.

It had been a week since their faux marriage hit the media, and already the world couldn’t get enough of them. Every move they made was cataloged, dissected, and turned into gossip fuel. But worse than the press, worse than the cameras, was the fact that pretending with Lucas had begun to feel dangerously real.

“Five minutes,” he called from the other room.

Zara smoothed her burgundy dress and grabbed her clutch, refusing to let herself look back. If she made eye contact with him now, she might not have the strength to keep pretending.

The night’s event was a charity fundraiser hosted by the Thorne Foundation. Which meant it was crawling with old-money elites, business rivals, and more exes than Zara cared to count.

As they stepped out of the limo, a frenzy of flashes exploded around them. Zara clutched Lucas’s arm, her smile perfectly poised, but her jaw tight.

He leaned close to her ear. “Breathe. You’re dazzling.”

She almost scoffed—but the compliment slipped under her skin and settled there.

Inside the grand ballroom, everything shimmered—golden chandeliers, crystal wine glasses, silver platters of canapés that looked too delicate to eat. Zara held onto Lucas’s arm with the grace of a woman who belonged. But her heart hammered.

He turned to her. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she lied.

He didn’t press. Instead, he led her toward a small group of high-powered men and women, all laughing too loud and sipping champagne like it was oxygen.

Among them was Harold Whitmore—the board member Lucas most needed to win over.

“Lucas,” Harold boomed, raising his glass. “And the lovely Mrs. Thorne. What a surprise. I thought you swore off commitment?”

Lucas smirked. “I never swore. Just waited for the right woman.”

Harold turned to Zara, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, she’s got bite, that’s for sure. You’re far more interesting than the parade of Barbie dolls he used to drag in.”

Zara gave a tight-lipped smile. “Glad I could entertain you.”

Lucas coughed to hide a laugh. “Zara’s background in PR helps. She knows how to spin a story better than anyone.”

“PR?” Harold perked up. “Really? So you’re the brains in this operation.”

She lifted her chin. “Someone has to be.”

The group burst into laughter, charmed. Lucas looked at her with open admiration—just a flicker, but enough to make her chest clench.

When the mingling finally ended, Lucas led her to a quiet alcove near the dance floor.

“You’re killing it tonight,” he said.

“I’m not doing it for you.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s what makes it so impressive.”

She hated how good that felt to hear.

Before she could reply, a new voice chimed in from behind them.

“Well, well. Look who finally made an honest woman out of someone.”

Zara turned to see a blonde woman in a body-hugging green gown with a diamond smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Lila,” Lucas said, his tone guarded.

Zara narrowed her eyes. Lila Hadley—the socialite who’d once shared a scandalous weekend with Lucas in Saint-Tropez. And who, according to gossip blogs, never quite forgave him for not calling after.

Lila turned to Zara. “You must be the wife. Brave of you.”

Zara smiled. “Takes one to recognize one.”

Lucas choked on his champagne.

Lila’s eyes narrowed, but she quickly recovered. “I just hope you know what you’re getting into. Lucas isn’t exactly… consistent.”

Zara stepped forward, voice ice. “And you aren’t exactly relevant.”

Lila opened her mouth, but Lucas cut in. “Enough, Lila.”

She gave him a look. “If you say so. Just don’t come crying when your house of cards falls apart.”

Then she sashayed off.

Zara turned to Lucas. “You attract such charming women.”

“She wasn’t always like that.”

“Oh, so it’s your fault?”

“Probably,” he admitted.

They shared a reluctant smile.

---

The night dragged on. Zara danced with investors, laughed at half-baked jokes, and smiled until her cheeks ached. Lucas was never far, his hand often at the small of her back, his presence warm and solid. Too solid.

Between dances, she found herself on the balcony, gulping in fresh air.

Lucas appeared moments later, holding two glasses of champagne. “You disappeared.”

“I needed space.”

He handed her a glass. “I get it. These nights are suffocating.”

She sipped. “Then why throw them?”

“Power plays,” he said simply. “The board loves a well-dressed party. It calms their nerves. Makes them think I’m stable.”

“And having a wife? What does that do?”

He looked at her. “It makes me look complete.”

Zara didn’t respond right away. The city sparkled below, but it felt miles away.

“You do realize this is temporary, right?” she said quietly.

Lucas didn’t flinch. “You keep saying that like it’ll stop me from wanting more.”

She turned to him sharply. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t real.”

“But it could be.”

His voice was too soft, too sincere. She hated it.

“No,” she said firmly. “It couldn’t. We’re pretending for thirty days. That’s the deal. You needed a wife. I needed the money. We are not rewriting the script.”

Lucas stared at her for a long moment. “You really don’t feel anything?”

She hesitated.

And that was her mistake.

He stepped closer, closing the space between them. “Because I do. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

Before she could argue, his lips brushed hers—soft, tentative, testing.

Zara’s breath caught.

She should have pulled away.

But instead, she leaned in.

---

The kiss deepened. Heat surged between them. Zara’s hands curled into the lapels of his suit, and for a moment, the world dissolved.

She broke away first, breathless.

“This is a mistake,” she said.

He cupped her cheek. “Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like one.”

They stood in silence, hearts racing, faces inches apart.

Then her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen.

A text from an unknown number.

> You’re in over your head, Zara. He’s not who you think.

She froze.

Lucas noticed. “What is it?”

She locked the phone quickly. “Nothing. Just spam.”

But her stomach churned.

Because whoever sent that message knew her name. And they were watching.

---

Back at the penthouse, Zara tossed her clutch on the couch and paced.

Lucas was still downstairs, probably charming the valet. She needed a second alone. A minute to breathe.

The message haunted her.

Who sent it?

Naomi? Lila? Someone from his board?

She opened the message again and stared at the words.

> He’s not who you think.

Well, no surprise there. She already knew Lucas Thorne was a liar. What she didn’t know was how many lies were still left to unravel.

The door opened behind her.

Lucas stepped in, loosening his tie.

“You okay?”

Zara turned. “Yeah.”

He studied her. “You sure?”

“Just tired.”

He nodded. “Get some sleep. We’ve got brunch with my mother tomorrow.”

Zara groaned. “Can’t wait.”

She escaped to the guest bedroom—her bedroom—and shut the door.

But sleep didn’t come.

Not when her heart was still racing.

Not when her lips still tingled from the kiss.

And definitely not when she knew someone out there wanted to remind her: she was just a pawn in Lucas Thorne’s very public, very dangerous game.

---

The next morning, Zara sat in the backseat of the car, legs crossed, sunglasses hiding her tired eyes. Lucas sat beside her, scrolling through emails like he hadn’t practically wrecked her life with one kiss.

They pulled up in front of a gated estate in Long Island. The Thorne family manor.

Zara looked up at the sprawling mansion, her stomach twisting.

“This was not in the contract,” she muttered.

Lucas gave her a sideways glance. “You said you’d play the role.”

“Didn’t realize it came with a villainous mother-in-law.”

He grinned. “She’s not that bad.”

Zara gave him a flat look.

They entered the manor, greeted by marble floors, high ceilings, and a maid who ushered them toward the back veranda.

Lucas’s mother, Catherine Thorne, was already seated. Tall, elegant, and sharp-eyed, she wore pearls like armor and smiled like a fox.

“Well,” she said. “The bride arrives.”

Zara forced a polite smile. “Mrs. Thorne.”

“Catherine,” she corrected. “At least in public. I assume you know how to behave.”

Zara sat down, every muscle tight. “I manage.”

Catherine sipped her tea. “I suppose we should be grateful. Lucas has never stayed with anyone longer than a weekend.”

“Maybe he was waiting for someone who wouldn’t put up with his nonsense.”

Lucas choked on his mimosa.

Catherine raised a brow, but said nothing.

Over brunch, Zara navigated question after question, her smile never slipping. She talked about her career, her “whirlwind” romance, her plans to “support” Lucas in all things.

And yet, Catherine’s eyes missed nothing.

Finally, as dessert was served, Catherine leaned closer.

“I don’t know what game you two are playing,” she said softly, her tone razor-sharp. “But I’ve played it longer. Be careful, dear. Pretending to love someone has consequences.”

Zara looked her straight in the eye. “So does underestimating me.”

Catherine smiled again. “Oh, I don’t underestimate you, Zara. That’s what makes this fun.”

---

Later that night, back in the penthouse, Zara found Lucas on the balcony, whiskey in hand.

“She hates me,” she said.

“She hates everyone.”

“She called me ‘dear.’ That’s code for enemy.”

Lucas smirked. “You survived. Barely.”

Zara joined him, leaning on the railing. “Why does she hate you?”

“Because I remind her of my father.”

Zara hesitated. “You never talk about him.”

“There’s a reason.”

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate.

Instead, he said, “Thanks for today.”

She looked at him. “I didn’t do it for you.”

He smiled. “I know.”

But his eyes—those damn eyes—looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the real danger.