Chapter Seven: Pretend to Be in Love

The days that followed were quiet—but not in the peaceful kind of way. It was the quiet before a storm, the hush that comes when two people are walking a fragile line, afraid that one wrong step might shatter everything.

Jasmine stayed.

Not because she had to—but because she wanted to.

Lucien stopped disappearing at night. He was still guarded, still mysterious and unreadable most of the time, but he didn't vanish. He started showing up—to breakfast, to business dinners, to the sound of her sketching in the living room. And in the smallest ways, he started opening up.

He told her about the first time he was betrayed.

About the board member who sold insider information to a competitor.

About the woman who left him when he refused to buy her a private island.

About growing up with a father who treated affection like a liability.

"Feelings complicate things," Lucien told her one night.

Jasmine looked up from her glass of wine. "No. They define things."

And for once, he didn't argue.

---

But just as the walls between them were thinning, the outside world began to close in.

Their next public appearance was a charity fundraiser—a masquerade gala hosted by the city's elite.

Jasmine had never worn a mask before. Not a physical one.

But that night, she put one on.

Gold and black, feathers curling to one side, her hair swept up in an elegant twist. The gown Lucien had sent her earlier that day was floor-length, backless, and scandalously perfect.

Lucien, of course, wore black.

He didn't need feathers or jewels to draw attention. His mask was simple, sleek, and still somehow intimidating. He looked like a villain in a gothic opera. And when he took Jasmine's hand to lead her through the towering doors of the gala, every head in the room turned.

"Smile," he murmured.

She did.

Even though it was fake.

Because tonight—they were performing again.

Only now, pretending hurt more than it used to.

---

The night was full of whispered comments and lingering stares.

"Is that the mystery girl?"

"I thought he swore off relationships."

"She must be worth a fortune."

Jasmine smiled at all of them.

She had learned the rules of high society quickly.

1. Always smile like you know a secret.

2. Never show when you're bleeding.

3. And never—ever—let them know they've gotten to you.

Lucien kept her close all night, his arm at her waist like a silent vow.

But she noticed how his jaw clenched every time someone mentioned his ex.

Madeline Leclair.

She arrived fashionably late, of course. Draped in red silk and wrapped in diamonds, Madeline looked like a walking warning label. Beautiful, yes—but cold in a way only the rich and bitter could be.

"Lucien," she purred, gliding up to them like a slow, deliberate storm.

"Madeline." His voice was flat. Controlled.

"And this must be… Jasmine?" Madeline's lips curved, not in kindness, but challenge.

Jasmine didn't flinch.

"Lovely to meet you," she said sweetly. "Lucien's told me… so much."

Madeline's gaze flicked over Jasmine's gown, her mask, her jewelry.

Then she leaned forward and said, just loud enough for Jasmine to hear, "Be careful, dear. Lucien doesn't keep his toys for long."

Before Jasmine could respond, Lucien stepped in.

"She's not a toy," he said sharply. "She's my wife."

And for a moment—it wasn't a performance.

Because the way he looked at Jasmine then… it wasn't just for show.

It was a warning. A declaration. And something dangerously close to real.

Madeline walked away in silence.

And Lucien pulled Jasmine into a dance.

"I'm sorry about that," he murmured as they swayed beneath the chandeliers.

"She doesn't scare me."

"She should."

"Why?"

Lucien's jaw tightened. "Because people like her don't let go."

Jasmine met his eyes. "Neither do I."

---

They didn't speak again until they were back in the car.

Jasmine kicked off her heels and exhaled. "God, that woman has claws."

Lucien chuckled. Actually chuckled.

It was the first time she'd heard him laugh without bitterness behind it.

"You handled her better than I expected," he said.

"Was that a compliment?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

She grinned. "Too late."

Lucien pulled off his mask. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not cracking under pressure. You played the role perfectly."

She turned to face him. "Who says I was playing?"

Lucien didn't answer.

Didn't have to.

His eyes said enough.

---

But the next morning, everything changed.

Jasmine came downstairs to find Lucien pacing the living room, phone pressed to his ear, voice clipped with frustration.

"I don't care. Do what you have to. Just handle it."

He hung up and cursed under his breath.

"What happened?" she asked.

He looked up, and for once, she saw it—real fear in his eyes.

"The press."

"What about them?"

"They know."

Her stomach dropped. "Know what?"

Lucien ran a hand through his hair. "That we're not legally married. Someone leaked the truth."

Jasmine felt the room tilt.

All their public appearances. All the headlines. All the smiles and staged moments…

Now crumbling like a house of cards.

"What do we do?" she asked.

Lucien's jaw locked. "We make it real."

She blinked. "What?"

He walked to her, his eyes burning. "We go to city hall. Today. We sign the papers. No more pretending."

Jasmine's heart thundered.

"This wasn't part of the deal."

"Deals change."

"You said no strings."

"I lied."

Silence.

Then, softly, Jasmine said, "Are you sure?"

Lucien reached for her hand.

"I don't want to lose you. Not to the press. Not to Madeline. Not to anything."

She searched his face. Saw the cracks. The raw honesty.

And something broke in her too.

"All right," she whispered.

---

They got married in a courthouse with no fanfare.

No white dress. No vows.

Just ink, signatures, and a new beginning written in law instead of lies.

Afterward, they walked out into the cold sunlight like strangers who had just signed a pact with destiny.

"Now what?" she asked.

Lucien looked down at her.

"Now… we stop pretending."

---