Chapter 7: The Honeymoon
1079 Words
The morning after the wedding, Ella woke up to silence. The bed was still cold on Alex's side. She lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening for any sound. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the house waking up downstairs, staff moving, coffee brewing, life going on like nothing had changed. But everything had.
She sat up slowly, the silk nightgown slipping off one shoulder. The rose petals on the bed had wilted overnight, turning brown at the edges. She brushed them aside like they were nothing.
In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror. She looked the same. Same dark circles, same tired lines around her mouth. The ring on her finger felt heavy, foreign. She twisted it once, then left it.
When she came out, Ales was already dressed, black sweater, jeans, hair still damp from the shower. He stood by the windows, coffee in hand, staring at the garden.
"Morning," she said quietly.
He glanced over. "Morning."
No 'good morning, wife.' No smile. Just that same guarded look.
She wrapped her arms around herself. "What's the plan today?"
He took a sip of coffee. "We're supposed to leave for the honeymoon. St. Barts. Private villa. Victor booked it months ago."
Ella's stomach dropped. "We're still going?"
He shrugged. "It's expected. Photos for the press. 'Blissful newlyweds.' Rebecca already has the jet on standby."
She stared at him. "You want to pretend we're happy for a week?"
"I want to keep my father off my back." His voice was flat. "And keep the board from asking questions. One week. We show up, take some pictures, come back. Then we go back to separate lives."
Ella nodded slowly. "Okay."
He set the cup down. "Pack light. We leave in two hours." He walked out without another word.
The flight was three hours of hell. They sat on opposite sides of the private jet, her by the window, him with his laptop open, pretending to work. The flight attendant brought champagne. Neither touched it.
Ella stared out at the clouds, twisting the ring again. She thought about Mom—another round of tests today, Victor had promised to call with updates. She checked her phone every few minutes. Nothing yet.
Alex finally closed the laptop. "You don't have to look like you're going to your execution."
She turned to him. "How should I look?"
"Like you're on vacation with your husband," he replied.
She laughed—short, bitter. "Husband."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing. "You said yes."
"I said yes to save my mother. Not to play house with you." She retorted.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "We can make it bearable. Separate rooms. No touching. Just... act normal in public."
"Normal," she repeated. "Right."
The jet landed in the late afternoon. Warm air hit her the second they stepped out, the kind of heat that made her shoulders drop a fraction.
A car waited. The driver took their bags. The villa was big, white stone, pool overlooking the ocean, open-air living room with white curtains blowing in the breeze. It looked like a magazine spread. It felt like a cage.
The staff greeted them with smiles and "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington."
Ella forced a smile. Alex didn't bother. Their bags were taken to separate rooms, hers on the left side of the villa, his on the right. Good.
She unpacked alone, hanging the few dresses Rebecca had insisted she bring. One was red, low-cut, the kind she never would've chosen. She stared at it, then shoved it to the back of the closet. When she came out, Alex was on the terrace, shirt sleeves rolled up, staring at the water. The sun was setting, turning everything gold.
He didn't turn when she stepped outside.
"Nice view," she said, just to say something.
"Yeah."
She walked to the railing, keeping distance between them.
He spoke first "We have dinner reservations. Eight o'clock. Some place on the beach. Rebecca set it up for photos."
Ella nodded. "Of course."
He glanced at her. "You gonna wear that red dress?"
She met his eyes. "No."
Something flickered across his face—amusement? Annoyance? Gone before she could tell
"Wear whatever you want," he said. "Just... don't make it obvious we hate each other."
She laughed softly. "I'll try."
They stood there in silence, watching the sun sink.
When it was time to leave, she changed into a simple black dress nothing flashy, nothing that screamed 'newlywed.' He wore dark jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. They looked like strangers who happened to be going to the same place.
The restaurant was candlelit, open to the beach. Tables spaced far apart. A photographer waited discreetly in the corner.
They were seated at a corner table. The waiter brought wine. Alex ordered for both of them without asking. Steak for him, fish for her. She didn't correct him.
The photographer snapped a few shots from across the room. Alex reached over, covered her hand with his. The touch was warm, deliberate. For the camera. She didn't pull away.
"Smile," he murmured.
She did a little bit.
He leaned in, lips close to her ear. "You're doing great."
His breath on her skin sent shiver down her spine. She hated it.
Dinner passed in quiet tension. Small talk about nothing. The photographer left after dessert.
Back at the villa, the night air was warm. They walked in silence to the terrace again. Moonlight on the water. Stars everywhere.
Alex poured two glasses of wine from the bar. Handed her one.
She took it. "Thanks."
The stood side by side, not touching.
He spoke first. "We survive the week. Then we go home. Separate rooms. Separate lives.
Ella stared at the ocean. "That's the plan."
He took a sip. "You okay?"
She looked at him, surprised. "Are you asking?"
He shrugged. "Yeah."
She thought about it. "No. Not really."
He nodded like he expected that.
They finished the wine in silence. When she went to her room, he stayed on the terrace. She lay in bed, listening to the waves. No consummation. No fighting. Just two people trying not to drown in the same deep water.
But the tension was there, thick, electric, waiting.
And she knew, deep down, that one week in paradise wasn't going to make it go away.
It was only going to make it worse.
- Writer
