The charity gala was supposed to be simple.
A public appearance.
A few photographs.
Dinner.
Then home.
At least, that’s what Adrian told me.
I should have known better.
The moment we entered the ballroom, cameras turned toward us.
“Mr. Blackwood!”
“Mrs. Blackwood!”
“Over here!”
I froze.
I still wasn’t used to hearing that name.
Adrian placed his hand lightly against my back.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Barely.”
I looked at him.
“Stop being observant.”
“I can’t.”
We walked forward.
Everyone was watching.
Women looked at Adrian.
Men looked at me.
Some looked confused.
Others looked amused.
I heard whispers.
“That’s the Carter girl.”
“Didn’t she just cancel her wedding?”
“She married Blackwood?”
“Apparently.”
I kept my expression calm.
Adrian leaned closer.
“Don’t listen.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
I looked at him.
“You’re irritating.”
“I’ve been told.”
We reached the main hall.
Olivia Grant approached us.
She was elegant.
Perfectly dressed.
Confident.
Beautiful.
She looked at Adrian first.
Then at me.
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Adrian.”
“Olivia.”
“I didn’t know you were bringing your wife.”
“My wife comes with me.”
Something flickered across Olivia’s expression.
“I see.”
She looked at me.
“Elena.”
“Olivia.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I imagine you have.”
Adrian glanced between us.
Olivia smiled.
“Enjoy the evening.”
She walked away.
I watched her disappear into the crowd.
“Who is she?”
“Someone you don’t need to worry about.”
I looked at Adrian.
“That’s another suspicious answer.”
“She’s not important.”
“She seemed important.”
“She isn’t.”
I decided not to argue.
Later that evening, we stood near the balcony overlooking the city.
The music was softer here.
The crowd was farther away.
Adrian stood beside me.
“You look beautiful.”
I turned.
“What?”
He seemed almost surprised by his own words.
“You heard me.”
“I did.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I didn’t expect you to say it.”
“Why?”
“You don’t seem like the type.”
He looked at me.
“Maybe you don’t know my type.”
I laughed softly.
“Maybe I don’t.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then a camera flashed.
I turned.
A group of reporters had moved toward us.
One shouted:
“Mr. Blackwood, is your marriage real?”
Another:
“Did you marry Elena Carter to protect the Carter Trust?”
My body went still.
Adrian stepped in front of me.
“That’s enough.”
“Is it true?”
“Mr. Blackwood!”
He turned toward the reporters.
“My marriage is not your business.”
A reporter pushed forward.
“Did you marry her for business?”
Adrian’s expression became ice.
“That’s not why I married her.”
The answer came instantly.
But it wasn’t quite the answer I had expected.
He turned toward me.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded.
But I wasn’t.
Because I had been wondering the same thing.
Did he marry me for business?
He took my hand.
“Come with me.”
We walked toward a quieter hallway.
I pulled my hand free.
“Did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you marry me because of the Carter Trust?”
His eyes held mine.
“I had reasons for approaching you.”
My heart sank.
“What reasons?”
He stepped closer.
“But they’re not the only reason I’m standing here now.”
I stared at him.
“That’s not exactly comforting.”
“I know.”
“Then why won’t you tell me?”
“Because some truths are dangerous before you’re ready for them.”
I almost laughed.
“There’s that answer again.”
He looked at me.
Then his expression softened.
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Whatever brought us together, what happens next is my choice.”
He stepped closer.
“So is yours.”
The distance between us disappeared.
I could hear my own heartbeat.
He looked at my lips.
Then back into my eyes.
He stopped.
“Tell me to stop.”
He leaned closer.
His lips touched mine.
Softly.
Carefully.
Not like a man claiming something.
Like a man asking permission.
For one second, I forgot everything.
Daniel.
Sophia.
The contract.
The lies.
The bracelet.
There was only Adrian.
Then he pulled away.
His forehead rested lightly against mine.
Neither of us spoke.
I looked up at him.
“That wasn’t in the contract.”
“No.”
“So why did you do it?”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“Because I wanted to.”
My heart did something dangerous.
I stepped back.
“We shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
“You’re my husband.”
“Not for much longer than the year we agreed to.”
“And this is supposed to be fake.”
His expression softened.
“Is it?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
He listened.
Then:
“Lock down the house.”
I froze.
“What happened?”
He ended the call.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Adrian.”
He looked at me.
“We’re leaving.”
“Why?”
He took my hand.
This time, I didn’t pull away.
As we walked toward the exit, I looked back at the ballroom.
Across the room, someone was watching us.
A man I didn’t recognize.
He turned away before I could see his face.
When we reached the car, I noticed something on the seat.
An envelope.
No name.
No address.
Just one sentence written across the front.
Ask your husband what happened that night.
My hands went cold.
I opened it.
Inside was the photograph.
The ten-year-old photograph of Adrian and me.
But there was something else.
A second photograph.
My mother.
Standing beside Adrian’s mother.
And behind them— my father.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
The night your family fell wasn’t an accident.
I looked at Adrian.
For the first time since our marriage began, he looked genuinely afraid.
And that scared me more than the message.