Chapter 6: Masks and Motives

Andy's POV

The gala's a theater of excess, crystal teardrops hanging from the ceiling like frozen rain. Conversation flows around us in waves—stock prices, political scandals, charity donations that mean nothing to people who'll never need charity. I taste copper on my tongue, the metallic tang of adrenaline mixing with expensive wine. Laura moves beside me like she belongs here, her emerald dress catching the light as she navigates conversations with surgical precision.

Every word she speaks is calculated, every smile perfectly timed, and watching her work is like watching a master craftsman.

She's charming the mayor's wife now, discussing art galleries with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you forget it's performance.

"The brushwork in that Monet series is revolutionary," she says, her voice carrying just enough passion to be believable. My throat tightens not from pride this time, but from something more dangerous. She's too good at this, too natural, and I'm starting to forget where the act ends and she begins.

The ballroom reeks of desperation dressed as sophistication. Beneath the floral arrangements and imported wine, I catch whiffs of nervous sweat and overpriced aftershave. These people are vultures in evening wear, circling each other with polite smiles and sharpened claws. I adjust my cufflinks, the gold warm against my wrists, and feel the weight of every eye in the room.

They're all watching, waiting to see if the Hayes heir will stumble.

That's when I spot him. Marcus cuts through the crowd like a knife through butter, his silver hair slicked back, his smile too wide to be genuine. My spine goes rigid, vertebrae clicking into place like armor. He's not just my uncle he's the architect of my father's downfall, the man who whispered poison in my grandfather's ear until the old man changed his will. The inheritance clause was Marcus's masterstroke: marry by thirty or lose everything to the "more responsible heir".

The law office smells like old paper and bitter coffee. I'm twenty-five, staring at legal documents that might as well be written in blood. "A stability clause," the lawyer explains, his voice apologetic.

"Your grandfather believed marriage would... ground you." Marcus sits across from me, his fingers steepled, his satisfaction radiating like heat from a furnace.

"It's for the best, Andy," he says, his voice honey over broken glass. "The Hayes name needs protecting." I sign the papers with hands that don't shake, but inside, I'm screaming.

Laura's laugh draws me back genuine this time, not the practiced version she's been using all evening. Senator Morrison has said something about his granddaughter's horse, and Laura's eyes crinkle with real amusement. "Midnight sounds like he has quite the personality," she says, and I realize she's actually listening, not just performing.

The revelation hits me like a physical blow she cares about this stranger's story, finds joy in his granddaughter's riding lessons. The orchestra shifts into a waltz, strings weaving through the air like silk thread. I guide Laura toward the dance floor, my hand finding the small of her back where the dress dips low. Her skin is warm, slightly damp from the evening's exertion, and when she looks up at me, her pupils are dilated in the dim lighting. "You're full of surprises," I murmur, close enough to smell her perfume something light and citrusy, nothing like the heavy florals choking the room.

"You haven't seen anything yet," she replies, and there's something in her tone that makes my pulse quicken. We move together, her body fluid against mine, and I'm struck by how perfectly we fit. Her hand rests on my shoulder, fingers occasionally brushing the hair at my nape, sending electricity down my spine. For a moment, I let myself pretend this is real that she's here because she wants to be, not because I'm paying her.

The fantasy shatters when I catch Marcus watching us from across the room. He's speaking to a man with a camera, their heads bent together in conspiracy. My blood turns to slush in my veins, and my steps falter. Laura notices immediately, her brow furrowing with concern. "What's wrong?" she whispers, her breath warm against my ear.

Before I can answer, Marcus appears beside us, his approach silent as a serpent's. "Andy, my boy," he says, his voice carrying that false warmth that makes my teeth ache. "What a lovely evening. And this must be the famous Laura." His eyes rake over her like she's livestock at auction, and my free hand curls into a fist at my side.

"Marcus," I acknowledge, keeping my voice level despite the fury building in my chest.

Laura's body tenses against mine, her instincts sharp enough to sense danger even if she doesn't understand its source.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you," Marcus continues, his smile sharp as a scalpel.

"Andy's told me so much about your... unique background." The emphasis on 'unique' makes my stomach drop. He knows something maybe everything.

Laura's training kicks in, her smile never wavering. "All good things, I hope," she says, her voice steady as a surgeon's hand. But I feel her pulse racing where my thumb rests against her wrist, a frantic butterfly beat that mirrors my own panic.

Marcus chuckles, the sound like grinding gears. "Oh, absolutely fascinating. Seventeen fascinating stories, to be exact." The number hangs in the air between us like a loaded gun, and I watch Laura's face go pale beneath her makeup. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat a countdown to disaster.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Laura says, but her voice has lost its steadiness. She's a good actress, but Marcus is a predator who's spent decades learning to spot weakness.

"Of course you don't," Marcus replies, his tone dripping with false sympathy. "But I'm sure the press will find your story absolutely riveting. In fact, I believe they're about to ask you about it right now."

That's when I see the flash white-hot and blinding, like lightning in a bottle. The photographer steps forward, his lens trained on us like a weapon, and I realize Marcus has orchestrated this entire moment. The trap is springing, and we're caught in its jaws.

The reporter's voice cuts through the music like a blade through silk, cold and merciless:

"Mrs. Hayes, care to comment on your seventeen previous marriages?"

The ballroom goes silent, two hundred pairs of eyes turning toward us with the hunger of sharks sensing blood. Laura's hand tightens on my shoulder, her nails digging through my jacket, and I feel the tremor that runs through her body. This is Marcus's checkmate public humiliation designed to destroy not just our marriage, but Laura's spirit.

But as I look down at her face, I see something that surprises me. Behind the fear, behind the shock, there's steel. Laura Castillo might be a professional bride, but she's also a survivor.

The question hangs in the air like a sword of Damocles, and I realize that whatever happens next will determine not just our fate, but whether the woman in my arms is someone I can trust with more than just my money, but Laura fainted.

Time stretches like taffy, each second an eternity as I wait to see when Laura will wake up