Married To My Enemy

3

The first rule of pretending to be in love with a man you loathe?

Don’t let him know he’s getting under your skin.

Elara stood beside Damon at the entrance of the Sterling Arts Gala, cameras flashing like machine-gun fire as reporters shouted their names from behind velvet ropes.

“Elara! Over here! Mrs. Voss, is it true you wrote a novel about Damon before you married him?”

“Elara, are you pregnant?”

“Damon, what’s it like being married to the woman who called you ‘the soulless prince of Wall Street’ in an article?”

Damon’s hand slid smoothly around Elara’s waist.

Tighter than necessary.

“Smile,” he said through clenched teeth. “Or they’ll think the rumors are true.”

“I’d rather let them think you kidn*pped me,” she muttered back, forcing a practiced smile as her eyes darted between flashbulbs.

He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear like a lover’s whisper. “You’re welcome to try and escape, but I think you’ll miss the catering.”

The cameras loved it.

From the outside, they looked perfect: polished, powerful, and passionately in love. Her scarlet satin dress hugged her curves, offsetting Damon’s sharp black tux like fire beside shadow.

But inside?

She was simmering.

They hadn’t spoken since the night he handed her the schedule. Three days of silence in a 6,000-square-foot penthouse, and now suddenly, he was the doting husband?

Her skin crawled at the hypocrisy—and at the way his hand lingered on her lower back as they walked into the ballroom.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above them. The room was a who’s who of Manhattan wealth, filled with false laughter, too-white teeth, and gowns that cost more than Elara’s rent used to.

“I hope you know how to mingle,” Damon murmured as they entered the crowd.

“I was raised in the literary world. I know how to fake a smile and choke on champagne.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Perfect. Just don’t choke tonight. Too many witnesses.”

“Such a romantic.”

A waiter passed with champagne. Elara grabbed one.

Maybe two.

Twenty minutes later, she was starting to feel it—the pressure of eyes, the ache of her forced posture, the tightness of her shoes.

She smiled, nodded, and listened to endless conversations about hedge funds and gallery installations she couldn’t care less about.

Damon was at her side, flawless as ever.

Polished. Controlled. Untouchable.

And everyone adored him.

“Elara, darling,” cooed a woman in diamonds. “You’ve tamed the beast! I didn’t believe the engagement announcement, but here you are. How did you do it?”

“With a tranquilizer gun,” she said sweetly. “And a little rope.”

The woman blinked. Damon smirked.

“Elara’s charm is… unconventional,” he said.

She sipped her champagne. “So is his idea of foreplay.”

He choked on his drink.

Good, she thought. Let the beast squirm a little.

They finally escaped to the balcony—a rare moment of peace above the glittering chaos.

Elara leaned on the railing, letting the night air cool her flushed cheeks. The city pulsed beneath them, alive and indifferent.

Damon stood beside her, sipping his drink in silence.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” she asked without looking at him.

“Enjoy what?”

“The spotlight. The power. The pretending.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“It’s survival.”

She turned to him. “No, survival is eating peanut butter and jelly for three months while your father’s company crumbles and you get rejection letters every week. This—” she gestured at the ballroom—“this is luxury cosplay.”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything?”

She snorted. “I think you’ve never had to.”

Damon stepped closer.

Too close.

“I lost my mother to a tabloid scandal when I was sixteen. My father buried himself in lawsuits. I’ve been clawing my way through this world ever since, Elara. You think I was born with a silver spoon? It was plastic. And I sharpened it into a weapon.”

His voice was low and sharp. Not angry—but something more dangerous.

Raw.

She looked at him, startled by the c***k in his armor.

And maybe… a little shaken by how familiar it sounded.

“I didn’t know,” she said, softer now.

“You weren’t supposed to,” he replied, his walls already going back up. “That’s the point.”

Elara turned away again, hugging her arms.

“This is all a lie.”

“The marriage?”

She nodded.

“Maybe. But the consequences are real.”

A beat passed.

“Why me?” she asked, still staring out at the lights. “Out of all the women, all the easy, docile, perfect ones—why choose the one who hates your guts?”

Damon didn’t answer right away.

Then he said, “Because you wouldn’t lie to me. And because the last woman I trusted smiled like they did… right before she sold a story to the press.”

Elara’s breath caught.

Not sympathy—never that—but something… adjacent.

Understanding, maybe.

And that scared her more than anything.

Because the more she understood him, the harder it would be to keep hating him.

And she needed to hate him.

Hate kept the lines clear.

Hate kept her safe.

They returned to the ballroom just in time for the charity auction.

Damon placed a discreet hand on her back again—possessive, rehearsed, yet oddly grounding—and whispered, “Try not to bid on anything ridiculous.”

She smiled sweetly. “I’ll try to resist the $30,000 toaster.”

But her smile vanished when the next item was revealed.

A first-edition copy of her debut novel, The Fire Between Us—the one Damon’s publishing house had shelved before its release.

The same novel she thought had been pulped.

Her blood went cold.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered. “There weren’t any final copies.”

Damon’s jaw tightened. “Someone held onto one.”

Bidding started at $5,000.

A woman in red raised her paddle.

“Ten thousand.”

Elara’s heart pounded.

“That book was never supposed to go public.”

“It’s a signed copy,” Damon said. “Apparently, your editor kept one. She must’ve sold it.”

Another paddle.

“Fifteen.”

Elara took a step forward. “I have to—”

Damon grabbed her hand.

“Don’t.”

She looked up, eyes burning.

“They’re selling my words. My work. Without my consent.”

He held her gaze. “You’re going to draw attention if you move. We’ll deal with it later. Privately.”

She tried to breathe, but it felt like betrayal on display—like the worst parts of her past were being auctioned to the highest bidder while she stood frozen in heels she couldn’t walk in and a dress that didn’t feel like hers.

“Twenty-five,” someone called.

“Sold.”

Applause.

And just like that, a piece of her was gone.

Damon didn’t let go of her hand until the lights dimmed and the band struck up a waltz.

“I hate this world,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.”

“Why do you stay in it?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he offered his hand.

“Dance with me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“First dance as Mr. and Mrs. Voss. Cameras are watching. Let’s give them what they came for.”

She stared at his outstretched hand.

And then—against every instinct screaming inside her—she took it.

He pulled her onto the dance floor, one hand at her waist, the other holding her fingers like glass.

The music swelled.

They moved together—graceful, fluid, magnetic.

To the crowd, they looked like a fairy tale.

But inside, they were burning.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured.

“I’ve had practice pretending,” he replied.

She looked up at him.

So close.

So dangerous.

So not what she wanted to want.

But as they turned beneath the lights and the world watched with envy, she couldn’t help the thought that slipped through her mind like a traitor.

What if he’s not pretending as well as he thinks?