Beneath the Spotlight

The grand ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and the shimmer of diamonds, but all Alina could think about was how tightly Damien's arm held her waist.

Not too tight to hurt. But just enough to stake a claim.

Every eye in the room was on them — the mysterious couple who'd shocked high society with their abrupt marriage. Whispers floated like smoke.

"She must be after his money.""Maybe it's a contract marriage.""I heard she was raised in an orphanage. What could he possibly see in her?"

Alina held her head high and smiled politely, refusing to let their words dig into her skin. She had grown up proving herself in a world that expected her to fail. Tonight was no different.

Damien leaned closer. His lips brushed her ear. "Smile. They're watching."

"I am smiling," she replied between her teeth.

He chuckled. "Try not to look like you want to stab someone."

She turned to him, her smile now genuine, though laced with fire. "Only you."

Before he could respond, a man in a white tuxedo approached. His salt-and-pepper hair and sharp features gave him an air of command, and Damien's entire posture shifted as he came closer.

"Mr. Lancaster," the man greeted Damien, extending a hand. "Or should I say, Mr. Married Man."

Damien gave a tight smile. "Senator Caldwell. I believe you've met my wife, Alina."

Caldwell's eyes landed on her with a thin, assessing smile. "Ah yes, the mysterious Mrs. Lancaster. You've become quite the topic in D.C."

Alina offered her hand, keeping her voice sweet. "Only good things, I hope."

He chuckled. "Oh, always. Beauty and mystery — it's a lethal combination."

Alina laughed politely, though her fingers itched to pull away from the senator's too-long handshake. There was something in his eyes she didn't like. The way he looked at her as if she were a piece of art on auction.

Damien subtly stepped between them. "If you'll excuse us, Senator. There are others we need to greet."

Without waiting for a response, he led her toward the center of the room. His hand stayed firmly at her back.

"You didn't like him," Alina said under her breath.

"He's a snake," Damien said. "Smile too wide, secrets buried deep. He'll try to use you to get to me."

"Use me how?"

"You're new. Easy to manipulate. People assume you're naive."

She snorted. "Clearly, they haven't met me."

That earned her a glance. Something softened in his eyes — a flicker of amusement or maybe something more. But it was gone before she could name it.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of shallow conversations and fake smiles. Alina played the perfect wife, laughing at appropriate moments, touching Damien's arm when needed. It was a dance — practiced and exhausting.

But then the music slowed. A waltz.

Damien extended a hand. "Dance with me."

Alina hesitated. "Seriously?"

He raised a brow. "Isn't that part of the act?"

She took his hand, and they stepped onto the floor. His palm was warm against her back, his other hand guiding hers. She had never danced like this before — close, controlled, intimate.

The music swelled, and for a moment, the world blurred into candlelight and violins.

"You're not bad at this," she murmured.

"I had a strict tutor," Damien replied. "My father made sure I was prepared for every society event. Even if I hated them."

Alina looked up at him. "I don't understand you."

"Good," he said. "If you ever do, it means I've let my guard down too much."

"Maybe you should," she said softly.

He said nothing.

They moved in perfect rhythm, his body shielding hers from prying eyes. It should have felt like a performance. But somewhere between the turns and dips, the line between pretend and real began to blur.

Her breath hitched as his hand brushed the bare skin of her back, holding her just a little closer than necessary.

"You smell like jasmine," he whispered.

Alina's cheeks flushed. "It's my perfume."

"I wasn't complaining."

She looked away, heart pounding. This wasn't part of the plan. She was supposed to remain detached. Guarded. But around Damien, the rules kept changing.

The music ended. They stopped, standing still in the aftermath.

He didn't let go of her hand.

Back at the mansion, the silence between them stretched as they entered the front door. The rain had started again, soft and steady, tapping against the windows like a lullaby.

Damien loosened his tie, tossing his jacket over the arm of the couch. "You did well tonight."

Alina kicked off her heels. "I wasn't performing. I just didn't want to embarrass myself."

"You didn't. You impressed them."

She walked toward the window, watching the rain. "I don't care about them."

"Then who do you care about impressing?"

She hesitated, then turned. "Maybe myself."

Damien stared at her. "That's the right answer."

A beat passed. Then another.

Alina crossed her arms. "Why did you marry me, Damien? Really. I don't believe for a second it was just about the inheritance."

He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. "Because I needed someone I couldn't predict."

She blinked. "That's a terrible reason to marry someone."

He smiled, tired. "It's the only reason that's ever made sense."

They stood there in the low light, the air between them thick with unspoken words. She wanted to ask if he was lonely. If he regretted everything. But instead, she said:

"I'm going to bed."

Damien nodded. "Good night, Alina."

She turned to leave, then paused.

"Damien."

He looked up.

"If you ever want to talk about your mother again… I'll listen."

Something shifted in his expression. Something fragile.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

She left the room, heart heavy with questions.

In her bedroom, Alina sat at her vanity, removing her earrings. Her phone buzzed — a message from her old friend, Emily.

"Still alive, Mrs. Billionaire?"

Alina smiled.

"Barely."

"Any hot drama yet? Or is he secretly sweet under all that frost?"

Alina hesitated.

"It's complicated."

She put the phone down and looked at her reflection. Her lips were still stained red, her eyes lined with kohl. But the woman in the mirror didn't look like a trophy wife.

She looked like a fighter.

And this fight — whatever it was — had only just begun.