Katheryne`s Mishaps

Mr and Mrs Orava

The wedding was nothing like the grand, society events Katheryne had attended her whole life. No orchestra. No cathedral. No hundreds of guests whispering about the bride’s gown.

It was held in the private garden behind her penthouse—a space filled with white roses and fairy lights that sparkled like stars against the early evening sky. The air was warm, the scent of fresh blooms heavy in the breeze.

Only a few witnesses were present: her lawyer, his lawyer, and a quiet officiant who seemed to understand this was business, not romance.

Katheryne stood in a sleek ivory dress—not a princess gown, but an elegant silk sheath that skimmed her figure like it had been poured over her. A diamond pin held her hair in place, catching the light with every movement.

Henrik wore a simple charcoal suit. It wasn’t designer, but on him, it might as well have been. He carried himself with quiet confidence, though his hands flexed at his sides, betraying a touch of nerves.

The officiant began the brief ceremony, his voice steady, professional.

Henrik’s gaze found hers as the words “Do you take…” floated through the air. He was supposed to answer quickly, without hesitation. After all, this was just a contract.

“I do,” Henrik said, his voice low, deep, and certain.

Katheryne’s turn came. She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. She had told herself she wouldn’t read into this—wouldn’t feel anything beyond the necessity of the moment.

“I do,” she replied, her voice smooth… but softer than she intended.

The officiant pronounced them husband and wife. There was no kiss—by mutual agreement—but the moment their hands touched to exchange rings, something shifted.

Henrik’s fingers were warm, calloused, grounding. Her pulse betrayed her by quickening.

They signed the papers, each stroke of the pen sealing their six-month bargain. The lawyers shook hands, the witnesses murmured polite congratulations, and then it was done.

But as Henrik stepped closer to murmur, “Mrs. Orava,” in a voice that made her breath hitch, Katheryne realized that for the first time in her life, she wasn’t entirely certain she was in control.

The penthouse was vast, sleek, and meticulously curated—marble floors, glass walls, and a skyline view that seemed to go on forever. Henrik had never seen anything like it.

Katheryne led the way in silence, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She gestured toward the guest suite at the far end of the hall.

“This will be your room,” she said, her voice crisp, business like. “You’ll have privacy. I expect the same in return.”

Henrik nodded, setting his small duffel bag down on the bed. The room itself was larger than his entire apartment, complete with a private balcony overlooking the city.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “I know the rules.”

Katheryne folded her arms. “Good. We’ll attend two events this week. My assistant will brief you on dress codes and etiquette. When we’re in public, you’ll act like a husband. Here, we can keep to ourselves.”

Henrik gave a faint smile. “Sounds simple enough.”

But as she turned to leave, he added, “You do realize this is the first time I’ve been in a place like this? All this… it’s another world to me.”

She paused at the doorway, glancing back at him. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” he said quietly, his gaze steady. “I’d rather get used to you.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. The remark wasn’t flirtatious in tone—just honest, almost disarming. She turned away before he could see the faint flush creeping into her cheeks.

Later that evening, they ended up in the kitchen at the same time. Henrik was making coffee, sleeves rolled up, moving with a casual ease that made the expensive space feel suddenly… warmer.

“You drink coffee this late?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

“Helps me think,” he said, pouring a second cup without asking and sliding it toward her.

Katheryne hesitated, then took it. “Thank you.”

Their fingers brushed briefly over the mug’s handle—just a touch, nothing more. But it lingered in the air between them like an unspoken promise neither dared acknowledge.

And as she sipped the coffee, Henrik caught himself thinking that six months might not be nearly enough.

Three days later, the ballroom of the Grand Marlowe Hotel glowed under a thousand crystal lights. The annual Real Estate Association Gala was the perfect place for Katheryne to make her first public appearance as Mrs. Orava.

Her gown was midnight blue silk, tailored to perfection, her diamond earrings catching every flicker of light. Henrik, standing beside her, wore a black tuxedo that fit so well it looked custom-made—though she knew it wasn’t.

“You clean up well,” she murmured under her breath as they entered.

Henrik’s lips quirked. “You almost sound surprised.”

“Don’t push it,” she replied, but the edge in her voice was softened by the faintest smile.

As they moved through the crowd, whispers followed them. Katheryne was used to it—her name carried weight in these circles. But tonight, the murmurs weren’t just about her. They were about him.

“Who’s the man with Katheryne Hart?”

“He’s not one of the usual Wall Street types…”

“Tall, handsome… definitely not from around here.”

Henrik didn’t seem rattled. He greeted people politely, shook hands with just the right amount of pressure, and listened more than he spoke—something that was apparently rare in this glittering room of egos.

When the chairman of the association, an older man with an imposing presence, stopped to speak with them, Henrik handled it with ease.

“So, Mr. Orava,” the chairman said, “what line of work are you in?”

Henrik smiled, calm and direct. “These days, my work is making sure my wife shines wherever she goes. I think I’m doing alright so far.”

Katheryne almost choked on her champagne. The chairman laughed, clearly charmed, and moved on.

As they found a quiet corner, she turned to him. “Where did that come from?”

Henrik shrugged. “Just telling the truth.”

She studied him for a moment. He didn’t have the polished arrogance of the men she’d grown up around. His confidence came from somewhere else—something steadier.

When the orchestra began to play a waltz, Henrik held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t—” she began, but he cut her off with a quiet, “Katheryne.”

She placed her hand in his, and he guided her onto the dance floor. His lead was sure but unpretentious, his touch warm at her waist. And for a moment, under the glittering chandeliers, she forgot entirely that this was supposed to be fake.