Marionette

Artemis's POV

By the time I stepped out of the blacked-out car and into the glaring sunlight, I had rehearsed my smile exactly thirty-seven times.

Each one in the tinted backseat mirror. Each one is wrong.

Too strained.

Too knowing.

Too bitter.

Too beautiful.

In the end, I chose the one I wore at funerals. A gentle, dignified curve—like I was mourning something no one else could see. Not sadness, exactly. Just… silence wrapped in porcelain. A smile designed not to invite questions.

As soon as my nude heel hit the pavement, the crowd roared to life.

Flashes and clicks.

A frenzy of lenses surged forward. The metal barricades groaned as photographers crushed in tighter, every square inch of sidewalk bristling with tripods, elbows, and barked questions.

The Ashbourne Civic Center loomed ahead in glass and steel—a polished monument to institutional modernity. But out here on the street, it felt like a gladiator ring.

I paused, blinking against the assault of light.

The sun blazed overhead, catching the subtle pearl sheen of my Rivière gown and throwing it into unforgiving high definition. I changed earlier when we stopped over at a beauty studio. Every curve, every seam, every crease broadcast to the world. My skin glowed under the summer heat—part blush, part nerves, all exposed.

"Mrs. Jiang! Over here—look left!"

"Artemis, is it true the Xu estate is selling shares to cover litigation?"

"Are the Liang land titles part of the hidden trust fund?"

My pulse spiked. A low, crawling nausea stirred in my gut.

Then— A hand. At the small of my back. Warm. Firm.

Isaiah.

His touch wasn't demanding. It wasn't performative. It was just… there. A subtle anchor in a sea of sound.

He leaned in just slightly. Close enough for only me to hear over the din. "Shoulders back. Chin up," he murmured. "They can't touch you if you don't flinch."

We moved forward.

Him in a crisp charcoal suit that caught the sun like oil on water. His tie: a muted slate blue, the same shade as the veins along his wrist where his watch sat like a crown jewel. Calm, composed, unreadable. The perfect Jiang heir. The kind of man headlines wanted on podiums, not in scandals.

And me— A woman wearing her mother's silence and her father's ambition like a gown stitched too tight at the ribs.

I could feel the cameras devouring us.

They zoomed in on the high neckline that framed my collarbones. On the way my hair was twisted up into soft combs— made by the hairdressers, chosen for elegance, not warmth. They caught the press-on smile, the way it cracked just slightly at the edges when someone screamed:

"Did Project Elysian launder funds through your grandfather's old firm?"

My heel caught for half a second on the edge of the carpeted stairs.

Just a breath. A blink.

But in that blink, I felt it: the thousand eyes trained on me. The simmer of judgment beneath the flashbulbs.

Isaiah didn't miss a beat. His hand pressed gently at my back, steadying me, guiding me. We were a practiced waltz of damage control.

No one saw the bruises from corset bones still faint on my sides.

No one saw the tight knot in my stomach that pulsed every time my father's name was dragged across social feeds—Virelius Xu, the tycoon patriarch with pristine suits and hollow praise.

No one saw the girl who used to dream of archways, not headlines. Who once believed urban planning was about dignity, not dynasty.

They saw what they wanted:

The Architect of Her Own Undoing.

The Wild Xu Heiress.

The pawn who married into salvation.

And in the back of my mind, I wondered: If I disappeared right now—if I turned around, ran down the block barefoot, dove into the sea of traffic—would anyone notice the human inside the press release?

I swallowed hard.

"You okay?" Isaiah whispered beside me.

His words didn't demand an answer. They simply existed. A net, in case I needed one.

I nodded once, sharp and small.

That's when I saw him.

Standing half a dozen steps ahead, on the stone plaza at the top of the stairs. Arms folded. Expression granite. Suit dark as a ledger.

Virelius Xu.My father.

Of course he was here.

His presence hit like cold steel to the chest. Every step I took toward the Civic Center felt like walking barefoot across glass.

He didn't move to greet me. He didn't smile.

He simply nodded at Isaiah. A slow, approving tilt of the chin. As if to say: Good. You're keeping her contained.

And I? I was invisible.

A daughter to display. A strategic piece. Nothing more.

Every childhood memory of his lectures rang in my ears.

"Don't flinch in front of power."

"Make them admire the shell if they can't reach the core."

"A Xu doesn't cry. Not unless the camera's rolling."

I stepped onto the final stair. And smiled—funeral version number thirty-seven.

The double doors swung open before us like the gates to a world I no longer recognized.

Inside, everything gleamed.

Crystal chandeliers sparkled like constellations overhead. A string quartet played something old, something tragic in a corner near the marble staircase. Men in tailored suits clustered like wolves around donation tables. Women shimmered in satin gowns and diamonds that could fund small cities.

The Healthcare and Urban Renewal Gala.

More politics than philanthropy. More theater than sincerity.

A room full of well-heeled power brokers congratulating themselves for caring.

Isaiah didn't miss a beat.

"Charles," he greeted a man in a grey three-piece, clasping hands smoothly. "Glad you made it. Artemis, this is Dr. Fendrel—Avenir's surgical fellow in Haldenridge."

I smiled, pleasant. Gracious. Utterly forgettable.

The same way you smile at ghosts in dreams you don't want to remember.

Isaiah slipped into his performance with alarming ease—handshakes, small talk, curated warmth.

His voice was smooth velvet, spun with polish and purpose. I watched the way people leaned toward him. The way their faces lit with recognition.

Dr. Isaiah Theodore Jiang. The youngest hospital director in Avenir's history. The golden son. The calm in every storm.

I stood half a step behind him. The dutiful bride.

"Of course," he was saying now to a woman in pearls and a vintage Dior dress, "Artemis is deeply involved in heritage preservation. She sees design as a form of narrative stewardship."

My head turned slightly. I looked up at him. That word.

Stewardship.

It had once meant something to me. Back before architecture became a battleground. Back when I still believed cities could heal if you built with intention. That good design wasn't about legacy—but dignity.

Now?

It sounded like something scraped off a donor pitch deck. A word worn down by men like my father.

We moved along the edge of the atrium, pausing near the step-and-repeat—a white-and-gold photo wall lined with the event sponsors' logos, bracketed by velvet ropes.

A spotlight backlit the floor. A publicist gestured to us.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jiang, just one photo for press materials."

We stepped into the light.

Isaiah adjusted his cuff. I curled my fingers lightly over his forearm, camera-ready, poised and flashes welcome us.

I kept my shoulders straight. Chin lifted. A smile curled at the corners of my lips—measured and quiet. The kind that said: I know you're watching. And you won't break me.

But just as we turned to exit—

"Artemis Xu! Over here!"

The voice was sharp. Male. Cutting above the polite hum of the gala.

"Haoxing Daily—can you respond to allegations that your marriage is just a PR strategy?"

It landed like a slap.

My spine stiffened. My heel wobbled, just a fraction.

Isaiah angled toward me, his smile still intact as he murmured through his teeth:

"Ignore it."

But I didn't. Because just past the press line, beyond the camera flash—

He stood there.

My father. Virelius Xu.

Perfect. Immaculate. As always.

His charcoal suit was pressed into severity. His plum tie gleamed under the chandeliers. Not a strand of silver hair out of place. A watch gleamed gold on his wrist—Xu Atelier's anniversary edition.

He didn't wave. Didn't beckon. Just watched. Like a man inspecting a product line for flaws.

A familiar chill sliced down my spine. I knew that look. It wasn't approval. It wasn't disappointment. It was calculation.

I could almost hear his voice in my skull: "Do not embarrass the family, Artemis. If you can't lead the narrative, erase it."

My mouth went dry. My vision blurred slightly at the edges.

Isaiah must've felt the shift in me. He leaned in slightly, eyes scanning my face.

"You okay?" he murmured.

I responded without blinking: "I'm fine."

A lie. Smoothly delivered. I had practice.

But something in me twisted. I didn't want to run.

I wanted to win.

I straightened my spine. Rolled my shoulders back. Inhaled through my nose.

Then I turned.

Fully. Deliberately. Toward the press line.

Flash.

My heart beat once—loud and slow.

Flash.

I met their eyes. All of them. Reporters, photographers, scandal-thirsty gossip bloggers and vloggers.

Then I spoke.

"My marriage is not a cover-up," I said clearly. My voice didn't tremble. "And Project Elysian was never about money. It was about honoring a neighborhood that shaped me—before I even knew how."

There was a hush. A stillness. Like someone had turned the volume knob down on the whole room.

Behind the cameras, I saw pens stilling. A few phones were raised higher. Expressions recalibrating. The shift from mockery to wait—what did she say?

And then I looked at my father.

Virelius's jaw ticked once. Not in approval. Not in fury. Just… acknowledgement.

His eyes didn't soften. He didn't nod.

He just turned, slowly, and walked away—back into the ballroom's throng of polished ghosts.

That was when Isaiah's hand moved—sliding from my elbow to the small of my back again.

Not to correct me. Not to steer me.

To steady me.

His voice was low. Just for me.

"You handled that well," he said.

"I wasn't performing," I replied.

"I know."

We stood like that for a moment. In the flashlights. In the aftermath. Not as husband and wife—but as two survivors in a city that wanted our names etched into its ruins.

And for the first time in days—I wasn't ashamed to be seen.

The second the heavy wood doors shut behind us, I turned on my heel and walked fast—too fast—toward the corridor's far end.

Not to cry. Not to throw up. To breathe.

The powder room was a cool, elegant space of cream marble and golden sconces. Silent. Blessedly empty. The soundproofing cut off the gala's polite chaos like a velvet curtain.

I gripped the marble counter with both hands. My heels echoed faintly against the floor. For a moment, I didn't move. Just existed.

Then I turned the tap and let the cold water run until it was freezing.

The shock of it stung as I cupped it in my palms and pressed it against my face. My skin prickled. My fingers shook.

I Inhaled and exhaled.

The mirror stared back at me. And for a split second, I wasn't sure who I was looking at.

My reflection was immaculate. Sculpted hair. High-collared gown. Soft coral lipstick. But my eyes— They weren't the same as yesterday.

Not fragile. Not glassy. Still tired. Still guarded.

But there was steel now, forged under pressure. A fire that hadn't flickered out despite the swarm of cameras and the man who made me.

My clutch buzzed against the marble. I blinked and grabbed it.

A message. From Liv Han. Jiang family PR royalty. Who could spin earthquakes into policy wins.

"Good coverage. Haoxing's trying to spin it, but the livestreamed quote worked in our favor. Stay visible. Stay elegant. Play nothing defensive."

Play nothing defensive.As if I were a hand of cards. A media persona. Something to play.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I didn't respond.

Just shut the phone off.

The silence returned. I counted five breaths before stepping back out into the hallway.

Isaiah was waiting.

He stood beneath one of the soft-lit sconces, his back to the stone pillar, one hand in his trouser pocket. His other hand swiped across a slim tablet, but he wasn't really reading.

When he saw me, he paused. And did a double take.

Not dramatic. Not performative.

But real.

His eyes moved over me like a scan he wasn't prepared to run—starting at my face, pausing at my collarbone, then sweeping back up as something shifted in his expression.

Not strategy. Admiration.

And then—he smiled.

Not the diplomatic half-smirk he used for donors. Not the polished one for cameras.

This was something else. Something unguarded. It hit me like the brush of a hand I hadn't braced for.

"You held your ground," he said quietly.

I shrugged, walking slowly toward him. "I've had worse."

He tilted his head. "Liar."

I didn't bother arguing.

We stood there, just a few feet apart. The hallway glowed gold around us—private, quiet, like a breath between two storms.

Then he surprised me.

"Do you want to leave?"

I blinked. "What?"

Isaiah slid the tablet under one arm and met my eyes.

"I said: Do you want to leave?"

I stared at him, unsure if I'd misheard or misunderstood.

"We don't have to stay for the second half," he said. "It's mostly political glad-handing from here out. People taking photos of themselves standing near influence."

"And what would we tell them?" I asked, skeptical.

He raised an eyebrow, suddenly amused. "That you had a headache. Or I needed to check on a patient. Or that we just got married and we're leaving to spend more time together."

Then—he winked. A slow, mischievous one that would've looked insufferable on anyone else.

"They'll believe any of it."

A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. Just a quick, startled breath of disbelief that landed somewhere between absurdity and relief.

And then he was serious again. His voice dropped.

"I'm serious, Artemis. If this is too much—if it ever is—just say the word. I'll handle the fallout. I'll take the heat."

I stared at him. "Why?"

There was a pause. Barely a heartbeat.

Then he said it.

"Because you didn't ask for this. And neither did I. But now that we're in it—I'd rather you survive it with less blood on your dress."

That stopped me.

Not survive it "gracefully." Not "look good." Just survive.

Something caught in my throat. I swallowed hard, eyes suddenly stinging from something I couldn't name.

"No," I said quietly, after a long pause. "Let them see I'm not running."

Isaiah didn't react dramatically. He just nodded. Like he'd expected that answer—but wanted me to know I had a choice anyway.

He held out his arm.

And this time, I didn't hesitate.

I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow, and we walked back down the hallway together. His stride matched mine exactly.

Not ahead. Not behind.

Beside.

When we returned to the main floor, the temperature felt different.

The second half of the gala had begun. The lighting had dimmed into something warmer. A jazz trio had replaced the string quartet. Dessert wine was being poured.

And eyes were already tracking our every step.

Some are polite. Some are curious. Some… predatory.

Isaiah greeted a trio of board members near the bar, offering me a low, quick murmur: "This will be the last round of glad-handing. After that, we ghost."

I nodded, lips tight.

But inside—I didn't feel like a marionette anymore.

The strings were still there.

But now I knew where they led.

And maybe—just maybe—I was learning how to cut them one by one.

The ballroom had shifted.

The speeches were longer now. The lighting dimmer. A soft amber glow spilled from the chandeliers above, glittering across the surface of every champagne flute like spun gold. Waitstaff moved like ghosts in pressed vests, clearing plates with silent precision.

I barely registered the food.

We were seated at the head table—of course. Front and center, like prize exhibits. A carefully orchestrated image for the press to capture: the new power couple. The beauty. The doctor. The scandal. The myth.

My name sat before me in gold foil script on a black lacquered card.

 Artemis Xu. Elegant. Perfect. A lie I still wasn't used to wearing.

Next to it, in cleaner serif font: Isaiah Jiang

No "Dr." No "CEO." He didn't need a title.

He wore a presence like tailored armor.

He sat beside me, the sharp lines of his navy tux softened by the warmth of the lighting. His hand occasionally brushed the base of his wine glass or the edge of his plate, precise in movement. Never wasteful. Always composed.

And somehow… comforting.

During the long, droning speeches—full of bureaucratic self-congratulations and vague urban promises—he leaned toward me. Close enough that his breath stirred a loose strand of hair by my ear.

He translated the language of politicos into sharp, quiet wit.

"That's the deputy governor. He just thanked himself twice."

"This guy's pitch is recycled from last year's flood recovery speech—word for word."

"Urban renewal, in this case, means 'bulldoze first, apologize later.'"

Each comment made me want to laugh. Not because they were hilarious, but because they pulled me back from the edge of dissociation. From the numbness that had been creeping in all night.

His presence became a tether. Quiet. Undemanding. Steady.

At some point, I realized my plate had gone untouched.

I picked at the garnish, moved my fork around. But I hadn't eaten.

Isaiah didn't comment. He simply leaned over, cut the salmon into delicate bites, and nudged the plate gently toward me.

"Try it," he murmured, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

I obeyed without thinking. It tasted like citrus and sea salt, but more than that—it tasted like being seen.

Later, as the dessert course arrived and flashbulbs from across the ballroom occasionally lit our table like artificial lightning, someone from a neighboring seat leaned over. A woman in violet silk and diamonds—smiling too brightly. The type of socialite who knew every headline and needed to confirm it personally.

"So," she asked sweetly, "how long have you two been together?"

The table quieted subtly, waiting.

Isaiah didn't flinch. He didn't stiffen.

He just smiled.

"Long enough," he said, with effortless confidence, "to know she's not what they say."

He didn't look at me when he said it. He didn't need to.

But I looked at him.

And for one suspended moment, I forgot how to breathe.

My chest tightened. Not in panic this time—but in something else. Something quiet and terrifying and disarming. Like my ribs were learning how to hold hope again.

The city was hushed behind glass walls. Ashbourne glittered like a dream from the wrong lifetime. The elevator ride up had been mostly silent.

Now, back at the penthouse, we stood in the dim light of the foyer. Two figures made of exhaustion and pretense and barely restrained emotion.

I hadn't changed out of the dress yet. My heels still pinched, and my scalp ached from the gold combs. But I didn't move.

Neither did he.

We were still performing.

Just for no one but each other.

Isaiah loosened his tie with a practiced tug. The gesture should've felt familiar, mundane.

Instead—it cracked something open.

Because when he looked at me, his expression shifted.

Gone was the cool, collected mask from earlier. Gone was the strategist. The doctor. The diplomat.

For the first time that day, he looked tired. And something else. Something almost… protective.

He took a small step closer, his voice barely audible above the distant hum of the city below.

"If you want to scream," he said, "or cry, or burn it all down—"

He paused. Let the silence wrap around the offer like velvet.

"I'll make sure the world doesn't see it."

Just that.

No demands. No advice. No consequences.

A shield, offered freely.

I nodded once, throat too tight for words.

My voice came out cracked and small. "Thank you."

Then I turned.

Walked to my door. Closed it behind me.

And slid down against it—knees to chest, fingers curled against silk.

That was when I let it fall apart.

The tears weren't loud. They never were. They slipped down like apologies I hadn't been able to say. Like grief I hadn't been allowed to process.

I buried my face into my palms and finally gave myself permission to grieve everything at once:

My mother.

My name.

My city.

My career.

The girl I'd been before all this.

Before contracts and cameras and crimson headlines.

And somewhere, just outside the door—I knew he hadn't moved.

Not yet.

Just standing there. Not as a witness.

But as someone willing to be the wall between me and the world.