Chapter 3: Shadows of the Past

Luna sat stiffly in the plush passenger seat of Killian's sleek, luxury car, the smooth, almost hypnotic hum of the engine doing little to soothe her frayed nerves. The high-stakes meeting at Blackwell Industries, a gauntlet she had been forced to run, replayed in her mind. Though she believed she had navigated the treacherous waters, she could still feel the lingering weight of the board members' assessing gazes, their unspoken doubts hanging heavy in the air. She knew precisely the narrative they were constructing. That she was merely a beautiful, decorative prop, a carefully chosen accessory. A strategic, if somewhat theatrical, move in Killian's ever-calculated, meticulously planned life.

She risked a glance at him, a silent observer in her own drama. He looked utterly composed, completely at ease, one hand lightly guiding the steering wheel, the other deftly tapping away on his phone.

He was the epitome of effortless control, a master of his domain. "Are you always this silent after a meeting?" she finally ventured, the question a fragile attempt to break the suffocating tension.

He didn't bother to look up, his eyes fixed on the device in his hand. "Are you always this talkative?" he countered, his tone clipped.

She exhaled sharply, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips, and turned to stare out the window, the passing cityscape a blur. "I thought you wanted me to play the part. People will expect us to interact, to see some semblance of…connection."

"They will. And they will see exactly what they need to see," he replied, his voice smooth but final, a clear indication that the conversation was over.

Luna's hands curled into tight fists in her lap, her nails digging into her palms. How had she ever allowed herself to fall in love with this man? The cold, distant figure sitting beside her bore no resemblance to the Killian she had once known. Or perhaps he did, and she had simply been too blinded by affection to see the truth.

They pulled up to the Killian's estate, the grand iron gates sliding open silently. The moment the car came to a stop, Luna pushed open the door and stepped out before Killian could say another word.

The house was eerily quiet as she made her way upstairs. Her bedroom—her designated space in this arrangement—was lavish but lifeless, like the rest of the mansion. A gilded cage.

She dropped onto the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples. She had to be careful. This wasn't just about playing the role of Killian's wife; this was about survival. And she couldn't let herself be consumed by whatever cold game he was playing.

A knock at the door made her jolt. Before she could answer, the door swung open, and Killian stepped inside.

"You could wait for me to respond," she said dryly.

"I own the house."

Luna rolled her eyes. "What do you want?"

Killian leaned against the doorframe, studying her. "Tomorrow night. The gala."

She frowned. "What about it?"

"You need to be perfect."

She let out a humorless laugh. "Your obsession with perfection is exhausting."

His jaw ticked slightly, but he said nothing. Instead, he pulled out a sleek velvet box from his pocket and tossed it onto the bed beside her.

Luna hesitated before picking it up. When she flipped it open, she sucked in a sharp breath. Inside was a diamond necklace—no, not just a necklace, a masterpiece of shimmering stones woven together like liquid fire.

"I don't need this," she said, snapping the box shut.

Killian crossed his arms. "You do. This marriage is built on image, and you're about to be the most envied woman in the room."

She stood abruptly, her pulse racing. "This isn't a marriage. It's a contract."

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—something dark and unreadable. "Then act accordingly."

With that, he turned and left, leaving Luna standing alone, clutching a necklace that felt more like a shackle than a gift.

The night of the gala arrived too soon. Luna's reflection stared back at her in the mirror, the diamond necklace sitting heavily against her collarbone. The dress Killian had chosen for her was stunning—deep crimson silk that hugged her body like a second skin, the slit high enough to command attention but elegant enough to demand respect.

A knock came at the door. This time, she was prepared.

Killian stepped in, his gaze sweeping over her. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, impossibly sharp, impossibly distant.

"You look…" He paused, his eyes lingering on her a second too long. "Acceptable."

Luna smirked. "High praise."

He stepped closer, adjusting the necklace slightly. His fingers brushed her skin, and she hated the way her breath hitched. "Remember," he murmured, "tonight, we are perfect."

Luna lifted her chin. "Then let's go put on a show."

The gala was a spectacle of wealth and power. The ballroom glittered with chandeliers, the air buzzing with conversations of business deals and social maneuvering.

Killian's grip was firm on Luna's waist as they entered, his touch possessive, proprietary. All eyes turned to them.

"Mr. Blackwell," a woman purred, stepping forward. Her blonde hair was sleek, her dress clinging to her like a second skin. "And Mrs. Blackwell. What a surprise."

Luna recognized her immediately—Celeste Monroe. The woman Killian had been linked to in the tabloids not long ago.

"Celeste," Killian said smoothly, his expression unreadable.

Celeste's gaze flicked to Luna, her red lips curving. "I must say, Killian, I didn't think you'd ever be the type to settle down. Especially not so…suddenly."

Luna smiled sweetly, sliding her hand up Killian's arm. "Well, what can I say? Some things are just…irresistible."

Celeste's eyes flashed with something unreadable before she laughed. "Of course. Enjoy the evening."

As she walked away, Luna let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Killian's voice was low. "Jealous?"

She turned to him, her smile unwavering. "Hardly. But it seems she is."

He didn't respond. Instead, he led her deeper into the ballroom, where the night was only beginning.

But as Luna sipped her champagne, she couldn't shake the feeling that beneath the surface, something was brewing. Something dangerous.

And Killian Blackwell was at the center of it.