Close enough to break
1031 Words
The next morning, I woke up to a closet full of clothes I didn’t buy.
Designer labels. Silks. Blacks. Nudes. Whites. Heels that looked like they came straight off a runway and price tags that made my stomach twist.
There was also a note.
*“Event tonight. 7PM. Formal. Don’t be late. —E”*
No please. No good morning.
Just commands.
I stood in the middle of my new closet, still in my pajamas, wondering what I’d actually signed up for. Being Elias Thorne’s fake wife wasn’t just playing dress-up for parties—it was stepping into a role that came with invisible rules and silent expectations.
And he was watching everything.
---
By the time I stepped out that evening in a black gown that hugged my waist a little too perfectly, Elias was already in the living room, dressed in a midnight-blue tux, glass of scotch in hand.
His eyes swept over me once. Not slow. Not lingering.
But deep.
He said nothing.
Just nodded.
Approval, maybe. Or a warning.
---
The event was at an art museum—closed to the public, rented out by one of Elias’s business partners for an “intimate” evening of power networking.
Elias held my hand when we walked in.
He let it go the moment we were past the cameras.
Inside, he moved like a king in his castle. Effortless, sharp, the kind of man who didn’t need to announce his presence to dominate a room. People came to him. Investors, board members, women in diamonds that sparkled harder than their smiles.
And me?
I stood beside him. Quiet. Smiling when needed. Laughing at things I barely heard.
Until she walked up.
Blonde. Stunning. Perfect red lips. And way too familiar with my husband.
“El,” she purred, wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug that lasted too long. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone.”
His jaw clenched. “Sienna.”
She turned to me, her eyes sharp behind her smile. “And you are?”
I forced a polite smile. “Aria Thorne. Elias’s wife.”
Her brows lifted. “Wife?”
Elias didn’t flinch. “We got married last week.”
“Huh.” Her smile turned fake. “And here I thought you were still mine.”
It was petty. Public. And meant to provoke.
I leaned in, resting my hand lightly on Elias’s chest. “I guess he traded up.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Elias hid a smirk.
And just like that… we passed our first public test as a “couple.”
---
Back in the car, the silence was thick.
“She’s your ex?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“She still into you?”
“She’s into power. Not people.”
I turned to him. “You always pick women like that?”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t pick you.”
I laughed. “No, you bought me. Let’s be clear.”
He looked at me then, eyes unreadable.
“You’re not like them.”
“I should hope not.”
“You make people stare.”
“I’m standing next to a billionaire. Of course they stare.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “They stare because you don’t look like you belong—but you stand like you do.”
I blinked.
That… almost sounded like a compliment.
---
At the penthouse, I kicked off my heels again. Walked to the kitchen. Grabbed a water. Pretended like I wasn’t unraveling a little bit more every time Elias looked at me like he *saw* something underneath the surface.
I turned to find him watching me.
“You’re adjusting fast,” he said.
“I’m surviving.”
“Same thing.”
I leaned against the counter. “You always this cold?”
His gaze darkened. “Only when I’m trying not to burn.”
The silence between us thickened. My chest rose slower. The tension stretched like a wire between us.
Then he turned and walked away.
---
I couldn’t sleep.
Again.
I tossed. Turned. Finally gave up.
The penthouse was silent when I stepped out into the living room. City lights painted the windows. A half-empty scotch glass sat abandoned on the coffee table.
And Elias was on the balcony.
Alone.
Shirtless.
Just black slacks, a low-hanging towel around his neck, and those muscles that screamed hours at the gym and years of control.
I should’ve gone back to bed.
Instead, I stepped out.
He didn’t turn. “Can’t sleep?”
“Not with your ex’s perfume still haunting the air.”
That got a smirk.
“You handled her well.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
He finally looked at me.
His eyes dropped to the oversized sweater I wore—his sweater, I realized, that I must’ve grabbed from the closet.
It hung off one shoulder. Bare legs. No makeup. Just me.
His throat bobbed.
“You’re dangerous like this.”
“Like what?”
“Unfiltered.”
We stood there, on opposite sides of the balcony, city buzzing below, silence crackling between us.
“Why me?” I asked finally. “Of all the women you could’ve paid to play house… why choose me?”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“Because you weren’t desperate. You were angry.”
I blinked. “Angry?”
“You walked into that interview like someone who’d had enough of being stepped on.”
I swallowed.
He wasn’t wrong.
“You’re fire, Aria. Most women just burn out. But you? You burn back.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I stepped forward.
And for a second, we were close enough to touch.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to fall for each other,” I whispered.
“We’re not.”
“Then stop looking at me like you’re already halfway there.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
But he didn’t move.
And neither did I.
Because one more step… and this would be real.
And real was dangerous.
So I turned away.
And left him standing in the dark.
---
- Writer
