CHAPTER FOUR: THE GALA*
790 Words
I didn’t sleep.
Not one second.
Lim’s words kept replaying in my head.
_Did he choose me for other reasons?_
Shit. It felt like it.
Well. I’m here now.
The papers are signed.
And there’s a ring on my nightstand. A f*****g huge diamond.
For now, I won’t ask. Not until I’m safe.
I stood up from the bed and the red dress caught my eye immediately.
It probably cost more than my entire life.
A knock.
“Mrs. Voss? I’m from Voss Styling.”
Three women came in with racks, shoes, jewelry. Within 30 minutes, my braids were swept into a sleek low bun, red lipstick on my mouth, and I was staring at a stranger in the mirror.
No. Not a stranger.
Me. The real Amara. The confident one I’d buried for a long time.
I stood, admiring the dress.
Long. Fitted. Backless.
It hugged my curves in all the right places.
Then came the necklace — a small diamond that matched the ring on my nightstand.
I smiled to myself.
“My husband really went all out.”
I slipped the ring on, grabbed my clutch, and left the room to meet Mr. Voss downstairs.
One stair.
Two.
And then I came face to face with the sinfully beautiful devil.
Black tux. No tie. Sleeves rolled once to show his watch.
He looked like sin personified.
His gray eyes dragged over me. Slow.
They stopped at the bare skin of my back.
“Isn’t that too revealing?” he asked, voice flat.
I raised a brow. “You picked this dress, husband.”
Was he serious? He chose it himself and now he’s annoyed it’s too revealing?
“Remember,” I added sweetly. “You said it was _uniform_.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
“Don’t test me tonight, Amara.”
Damn. My name on his tongue did things to me.
I let it pass. We had people to deceive tonight.
The car ride to the Voss Foundation was silent. The tension could’ve choked you.
20 minutes later we pulled up to 200 of NYC’s richest people, and photographers screaming on the red carpet.
“Rule one,” he murmured, his hand settling firm on my lower back. “Public couples only.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course I knew that. Why remind me again?
“I got this, Mr. Voss.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Cameras everywhere.
My cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Mrs. Voss, over here!”
“Look at me!”
“Here, Mrs. Voss!”
I leaned up and kissed his cheek.
“Smile like you mean it, Mr. Voss,” I whispered.
His palm dipped to my waist, possessive.
I smiled. That’s more like it, Ice King.
Inside: champagne, string quartets, perfume that cost more than rent.
Men in expensive tuxes looked at me like I was dessert.
Women in couture wore diamonds around their necks.
A hedge fund guy in his 40s approached.
“Mrs. Voss, what a beautiful dress. Lim is a lucky man.”
His hand touched my arm.
Lim was there in 2 seconds.
“She’s spoken for,” he said, his palm squeezing my waist so tight it hurt.
“Sorry. Excuse me,” the man stammered and walked away.
If looks could kill, that man would be six feet under.
I hid my smirk. “What was that?”
“That was me following the contract.”
I looked at him with sleepy eyes. “Liar.”
Then the MC’s voice cut through:
“Mr. and Mrs. Voss, for our photo!”
I smirked at him. “Let’s go, husband. They’re waiting for us.”
I led the way, walking slowly, swaying my hips.
I could feel his attention burning into my neck.
50 f*****g cameras.
We smiled. We posed. We looked disgustingly in love.
“Kiss her!” someone yelled.
It was supposed to be a peck.
But the moment his lips touched mine, sparks lit up every inch of my body.
I closed my eyes and dragged my hands into his hair, pulling him closer.
1 second.
2 seconds.
He was still kissing me.
So I pulled back.
“For the cameras,” he said, voice rough.
I smiled. “Right. For the cameras.”
_Tell that to yourself, Ice King. Not me._
The drive home was worse.
Thick. Heavy. Intense.
I’m sure the driver felt it too.
Especially with his hand still on my thigh like he forgot to move it.
We got to the penthouse.
“Good night, Mrs. Voss.”
“Good night, Mr. Voss.”
I went to my room, shut the door, and pressed two fingers to my lips.
That was definitely not in Section 4, Clause 2.
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