EPISODE 4
822 Words
Everyone here treated me like I mattered.
Everyone except the man I had married.
It was almost funny.
I imagined what this looked like from the outside. A woman stepping into a billionaire’s mansion, being pampered, attended to and welcomed?
People would assume I’d won.
They wouldn’t see the quiet distance.
The way he spoke around me.
The way his eyes slid past me like I was part of the décor.
I sank deeper into the water.
Maybe this is the deal, I thought. Comfort without connection. Safety without belonging.
I could live with that.
I had lived with worse.
But as I dried off and slipped into the robe laid out for me, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
I didn’t look victorious.
I looked… careful.
Like someone walking across ice, testing each step.
Everyone in this house had welcomed me.
Everyone but him.
And something told me that kindness was the calm before something much more complicated.
………………
I was still figuring out where the light switches were when the sound of heels echoed through the hallway.
Not soft heels.
Not polite heels.
These were confident heels. The kind that announced their owner before she ever spoke.
I paused, towel still wrapped around my hair, one sleeve of the robe half-on. For a brief, embarrassing second, I wondered if I was in the wrong wing of the house. Because the sound didn’t belong to someone who tiptoed.
Then laughter followed.
A woman’s laughter. Smooth and elegant. Familiar in a way that suggested repetition.
I stepped out of my room just as Margaret appeared from the staircase, her smile tightening, just slightly. Not disapproval, awareness.
“Ah,” she said gently. “Mr. Vale has a guest.”
A guest.
At night.
On the first day of my arrival.
“Oh,” I replied intelligently.
I didn’t know what else to say. Welcome to your contract marriage, Brenda. Complimentary mistress included.
The woman came into view seconds later.
She was… stunning. Effortlessly so. Tall, glossy hair, silk dress that hugged her like it was sewn onto her body. She looked like money that didn’t need to announce itself.
Lucien walked beside her, his hand resting comfortably at the small of her back.
Comfortably.
He looked different. Relaxed. Less controlled. Like the air around him wasn’t constantly being measured.
That realization hit harder than I expected.
“Brenda,” he said when he noticed me, his voice neutral. “This is Camille.”
Camille smiled at me slowly, eyes scanning me from head to toe, not rudely, just confidently. Like she was assessing a room she already owned.
“So this is the wife,” she said, amused. “You’re prettier than I expected.”
Prettier than what?
“Thank you,” I said, because I had been raised correctly or incorrectly. Hard to tell.
Lucien didn’t correct her.
Didn’t explain.
Didn’t look uncomfortable.
“I’ll have dinner served shortly,” Ms. Margaret said smoothly, breaking the moment. Her eyes flicked to me. A quiet question.
“I’m not hungry,” I said quickly.
Which was a lie. But hunger suddenly felt inappropriate at the moment.
Lucien nodded. “Camille will be staying the night.”
Staying.
The night.
He said it like he was informing me of the weather.
“Of course,” I replied, surprising even myself with how steady my voice sounded.
Camille tilted her head, studying me again. “You don’t mind?”
Mind?
I almost laughed.
“I’m here on a contract,” I said lightly. “Not a delusion.”
Lucien’s eyes flicked to me then. Just for a second.
Something unreadable passed between us.
Camille smiled wider. “I like her.”
That made one of us.
……………
I returned to my room and closed the door quietly, as if noise itself would be an inconvenience.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
This was real.
This wasn’t a movie where the billionaire suddenly respected boundaries. This was an influential billionaire who had married me for convenience and brought another woman home without hesitation.
And the worst part?
I couldn’t even be angry.
Anger implied expectation.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant murmur of voices, Camille’s laughter drifting through the house like perfume.
At least he didn’t pretend, I thought. At least he didn’t lie.
That was something. Right?
……………
Sleep was shallow and restless.
Morning arrived too quickly.
By the time I was dressed, the house was already buzzing. Stylists arrived, Makeup artists, Assistants with tablets and clipboards.
Lucien’s first public appearance with his wife.
I sat as a woman dabbed concealer under my eyes, wondering if she could see the truth through my skin. Wondering if anyone here knew Camille had stayed the night.
“Relax,” the stylist said softly. “You’re doing great.”
Doing great at what? Existing?
- Writer
