THE PERFORMANCE
1126 Words
Flashbulbs were the first sign she was no longer invisible.
Ariella stepped out of the town car, heels clicking against the marble steps of the Grand Astoria Hotel, and was immediately blinded by a storm of cameras. She froze—only for a second—but Dominic was already beside her, hand gently on her lower back, guiding her forward with the precision of a man used to being watched.
The press release had gone out that morning.
Dominic Blackwood, elusive tech tycoon and heir to the Blackwood Holdings empire, has confirmed his secret marriage to artist Ariella Cruz in a private civil ceremony earlier this week…
She hadn't even known the marriage was finalized until she'd seen it trending on Twitter.
"Just smile," Dominic whispered as they moved past the velvet ropes. "And don't flinch."
"Easy for you to say. You look like you were born in a tuxedo."
He smirked, lips barely moving. "And you look like a painting come to life."
She didn’t know if it was a compliment or part of the illusion.
Inside, the ballroom sparkled. Chandeliers dripped with crystal. Strings played soft jazz. Every surface gleamed like it had been polished with power. And the people—God, the people—were all sharp angles, tighter smiles, and whispered judgments.
Ariella kept her chin high, her face neutral, but her heart thudded against her ribcage like it wanted to flee.
They moved through the crowd like royalty. Or prey. She couldn’t tell which.
The gala was a Blackwood Foundation event—one of those affairs that existed to funnel money from rich hands to convenient charities. Art for the blind. Tech for underprivileged schools. Nothing that would ever touch the people she grew up with.
Ariella kept her responses short as they were introduced to investors, donors, and socialites. She nodded at over-lifted faces and men with million-dollar smiles that never reached their eyes.
"This is my wife, Ariella," Dominic would say, and every time the words scraped her skin like sandpaper.
She wasn’t used to being claimed. Not like that. Not in a world that saw her as furniture with legs.
“She’s... exquisite,” one older woman said, eyes skimming Ariella’s figure like she was inspecting a sculpture.
“Where did you meet again?” another man asked, eyes narrowed with polite suspicion.
“A charity art gala,” Ariella recited smoothly. “He ruined my favorite heels. I insulted his taste in paintings. The rest is sarcasm and history.”
A few chuckled. Dominic gave her an approving glance. And that—strangely—burned more than it pleased her.
The night stretched on.
Dinner was served in courses she couldn’t pronounce. A violinist played near the fountain. Waiters glided like shadows. Every movement, every word, was part of a script Ariella hadn’t written but was expected to memorize.
At one point, she excused herself to the powder room just to breathe.
The mirror showed a woman in a silver gown, neckline modest, earrings glittering like ice. Hair twisted into a perfect bun. Posture sculpted.
But the eyes. The eyes still belonged to a girl from Brookfield who painted with her fingers and forgot to eat lunch.
“Aren’t you going to smile?” a voice asked from the doorway.
She turned.
Camille Dervaux stood leaning against the marble wall, arms folded. Tall, lean, elegant in an emerald dress that clung like scandal. Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer.
"I know who you are," Camille said.
Ariella raised an eyebrow. "That makes one of us."
"I'm Dominic's ex-fiancée. Or ex-‘almost fiancée’ if you count the ring he never quite gave me."
Ah. So this was the snake in lipstick she’d heard about. One of the many women Dominic had entertained during his infamous bachelor years.
"Congrats," Ariella said flatly.
"You won’t last six months," Camille said, walking closer. "He doesn’t love. He uses. He builds walls so high you’ll break your soul trying to climb them."
Ariella swallowed, gaze steady. "Good thing I didn’t come here for love, then."
Camille laughed softly. "I almost like you. That’s dangerous."
Then she left in a cloud of perfume and venom.
Ariella turned back to the mirror, hands gripping the marble sink.
She had known it wouldn’t be easy. But she hadn’t expected to feel like she was drowning in glass.
Back at the table, Dominic didn’t mention her absence. He simply leaned in and whispered, “The board wants a photo of us kissing for the year-end report.”
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He gestured discreetly to the corporate photographer circling nearby. "They want ‘authentic intimacy.’ It reassures shareholders."
Ariella stared at him. "You’re unbelievable."
"Just pretend you like me for five seconds. That shouldn’t be too hard."
"I’d rather kiss a cactus."
"I'll buy you one after," he said dryly.
Then, before she could respond, he reached for her hand under the table, stood, and pulled her gently toward him.
They posed beside a massive crystal sculpture. Dominic’s arm slid around her waist. His other hand cupped her jaw. He leaned in.
"Don’t think. Just perform."
Then he kissed her.
It was slow. Methodical. Calculated.
And… infuriatingly effective.
His lips were warm. Firm. Not demanding, but insistent. Her body tensed, but her lips responded with the barest pressure. The cameras flashed, and somewhere deep in her gut, something fluttered.
Not affection.
Not desire.
Something more dangerous: confusion.
He pulled back slightly, lips inches from hers, his breath steady. His gaze met hers—and for a moment, she saw something break.
A flicker.
A hairline c***k in the mask.
Then it was gone.
They both turned to the cameras.
The crowd applauded.
The image was perfect.
Later, in the car, silence stretched between them like a third passenger.
Ariella stared out the window, the city lights streaking past like ghosts.
Dominic finally broke the silence. “You handled yourself well tonight.”
“Do I get a gold star?”
“You get fewer enemies. That’s more valuable.”
She turned toward him. “Was any of that real?”
“The kiss?” he asked.
She nodded once.
He looked at her, and for a brief second, the smirk dropped. "You tell me."
Then he looked away.
The car pulled into the estate.
Ariella didn’t say goodnight. She walked straight to her wing, heels echoing down the long hallway like gunshots.
Alone in her suite, she tore off the gown, tossed the earrings, and collapsed on the bed.
But sleep didn’t come.
Only the memory of his lips.
And the dangerous realization that the performance was starting to feel less like acting.
And more like… something she couldn’t control.
- Writer
