Chapter Eight: When Pretending Ends

The silence between them felt different now.

Not heavy or cold—but unfamiliar, like two actors stepping off stage and realizing they were still holding hands.

Lucien hadn't let go of Jasmine's hand since they left city hall.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently over hers. No words. No forced affection. Just silence that was now theirs.

Jasmine stared out the window, watching the city blur past. It looked the same. Cars, glass towers, people walking too fast. But she wasn't the same.

She was a wife now.

For real.

What does that even mean anymore?

Lucien glanced at her. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Just… processing."

"Same."

They pulled into the underground garage of his penthouse building. The security team was already waiting. Lucien said nothing to them—just nodded and led her toward the private elevator.

Inside, she finally spoke.

"So… now what? We move on like nothing's changed?"

Lucien met her eyes. "No. Everything's changed."

---

The penthouse looked the same, but when the door shut behind them, the silence turned sharp.

Jasmine turned to face him. "Do you regret it?"

Lucien didn't answer right away.

He unbuttoned his coat, took a breath, and said, "No. But I don't know what I'm doing."

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I've built empires, Jasmine. Bought companies. Destroyed threats. I've never been someone's husband."

Her voice softened. "Neither have I."

He smiled. Just slightly. "You make it look easy."

"It's not."

Another beat passed. He stepped closer. "You scare me."

She laughed under her breath. "Why?"

"Because you make me feel things I've spent years burying."

Jasmine swallowed hard. "Then maybe we start small. No pretending. No scripts. Just… us."

Lucien took her hand again.

"No more masks," he said.

She nodded. "Deal."

---

For the next few days, they tried.

Tried to live like two people who weren't lying anymore.

Lucien started coming home earlier. Jasmine started leaving sketches on the table, not bothering to hide them anymore. They watched movies together. Cooked. Ate leftovers in their socks on the couch.

It wasn't perfect.

Lucien still had walls, and Jasmine still had wounds—but it was real. Awkward, fragile, but real.

Then the first real test came.

---

It started with a letter.

A thick cream envelope slipped beneath their door.

Jasmine picked it up and read the gold-embossed name on the back:

"The Leclair Estate."

Lucien's ex. Again.

Inside was an invitation.

A three-day business retreat hosted by one of Lucien's oldest allies—someone Madeline's family also happened to be in bed with, figuratively and financially.

"You don't have to come," Lucien said, reading the concern on her face.

Jasmine set the card down. "You're my husband now. If she's going to test us, let her."

Lucien arched a brow. "You really want to spend three days locked in a mansion with people who want to see us fall apart?"

She smiled coldly. "Sounds like fun."

---

The Leclair estate was built like a castle—sprawling gardens, white stone pillars, a sweeping staircase that looked like it belonged in a movie.

Jasmine wore black this time.

Sleek, fitted, elegant.

She wasn't there to impress.

She was there to own the room.

Lucien walked beside her like a shadow, his arm around her waist, his expression unreadable.

They stepped inside and were greeted by whispered greetings, fake smiles, and eyes that watched like hawks.

Madeline found them within ten minutes.

"I'm surprised you came," she said with a smile that didn't touch her eyes.

"We don't run from invitations," Jasmine said coolly.

Lucien added, "This is a business weekend, right? Let's keep it professional."

Madeline's smile widened. "Of course. But business can be… personal."

---

The first day passed in a blur of meetings, wine tastings, and tense conversations.

That night, Jasmine stepped onto the balcony of their guest suite and exhaled.

The stars were out. The garden below was quiet.

Lucien joined her, holding two glasses.

"Scotch?" he offered.

She took it. "Thanks."

They stood there for a moment.

He broke the silence. "You were incredible today."

She looked at him. "So were you."

He took a sip. "You make it easy to be brave."

That made her pause. "Lucien…"

He turned toward her. "Yeah?"

"What happens when we're not performing anymore? When the audience is gone?"

Lucien didn't speak for a while.

Then he set down his glass and walked to her.

"I think about you more than I should."

Her heart raced.

"I wake up wondering if you're still here. I fall asleep hoping you won't disappear."

She swallowed. "That doesn't answer the question."

"I don't want to pretend anymore. Not just in public. Not at all."

Her voice shook. "Then don't."

He leaned in, brushing his fingers along her jaw. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

She didn't.

Because she couldn't.

Because when his lips found hers—it didn't feel like acting.

---

The next morning, Jasmine woke up tangled in silk sheets and stronger emotions than she was ready for.

Lucien was already up, standing by the window shirtless, his phone in hand.

"Trouble?" she asked sleepily.

He turned. "No. Just business."

She pulled the sheet around her and sat up. "You always say that."

He smiled. "That's because it's always true."

But Jasmine sensed something off.

Before she could push, someone knocked at the door.

A butler handed Lucien a sealed envelope and bowed out.

Lucien read it silently, then handed it to her.

It was from Madeline.

One sentence.

"You can't build something real on top of a lie."

Jasmine's throat tightened. "What does she know?"

Lucien's jaw flexed. "Enough."

"Do you think she'll expose us?"

"No. She's not stupid. She just wants to shake us."

"Well… it's working."

Lucien stepped closer. "Then let's shake her back."

---

That afternoon, during the estate's open forum—a public business roundtable—Lucien stood and introduced Jasmine.

"Some of you know her as my wife. But she's more than that. She's an artist, a visionary, and the woman who reminded me what trust means."

Whispers filled the room.

Jasmine's heart pounded.

"She's not here because of our marriage. She's here because she belongs in rooms like this. And anyone who underestimates her—underestimates me."

Jasmine stood beside him.

She didn't need a script.

"I know most of you think I'm just a pretty face in a nice dress," she began, scanning the crowd. "But looks fade. Intentions don't. And my intention is to help Lucien build something that lasts."

She paused.

"With or without your approval."

Silence.

Then applause.

Madeline didn't clap.

But she didn't smile either.

And Jasmine counted that as a win.

---

That night, Lucien traced his fingers down Jasmine's spine and whispered, "You didn't have to do that."

She turned to him. "Yes. I did."

"Why?"

"Because we're not pretending anymore."

Lucien pulled her closer.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," he whispered.

She closed her eyes. "Then fall."

---