CHAPTER 144: TWO MONSTERS LOCKED IN A DANCE OF PRETENSE

Aiden POV:

I buzzed Tobias without lifting my head from the stack of reports I wasn’t really reading.

"Make sure she’s ready. Presentable," I said, my voice a low, cold command. "Get her something appropriate to wear. Classy. Nothing cheap."

I drummed my fingers against the desk, each tap sharper than the last.

"And Tobias," I added before he could scurry off, "don’t take her out of the house. Bring the goddamn stylist to her. Hair, makeup, the works. I don’t care what it costs. She needs to look the part."

"Understood, sir," he said quickly.

Smart man. He didn’t question the order, didn’t ask why I was treating her like a porcelain doll to be repainted after I shattered her only hours before.

He was back within forty minutes with one of the black cars we used for events. I didn’t look up when he informed me everything was done—that she was ready.

Just grabbed my jacket, straightened my cuffs, and walked past him without a word.

The drive home was silent.

Even the engine seemed to purr lower, as if sensing my mood.

When we pulled up to the villa, I sat there for a moment longer than necessary, gripping the steering wheel so tight the leather groaned under my hands.

I hated this part.

The pretending.

The performing.

Smiling for the cameras, whispering into her ear like a doting husband while inside I was a twisted wreck.

I climbed out of the car, slamming the door harder than I needed to, and stalked into the house.

And then I saw her.

And everything inside me stuttered to a stop.

She stood in the entrance like a goddamn vision.

Hair swept up in a delicate, intricate style that showed off the long, proud line of her throat.

A sleek black dress clung to her curves, modest but devastating, with a slit up one thigh just high enough to hint at the paradise hidden beneath.

Diamond earrings—my fucking diamonds—sparkled at her ears, catching the light as she shifted slightly in her heels.

If you looked closely, you could see the slight wobble in her walk.

The barely-there tremble in her hand as she clutched her small silver clutch.

Evidence of what happened this morning.

Evidence only I would recognize.

But from the outside?

She looked flawless.

Elegant.

Untouchable.

Like a fucking heiress born to this life, with no trace of the ruined, sobbing girl I’d left bruised and broken in the sheets.

God help me, she was beautiful.

So goddamn beautiful it made something ugly twist inside me.

I hated that.

I hated that I couldn’t tear my fucking eyes off her.

Hated that despite everything, despite the screams, the punishments, the betrayal in another lifetime, some part of me still fucking wanted her.

I clamped the feeling down hard.

Buried it under the same ice that kept me alive all these years.

Without a word, I walked up to her, leaned down as if I were going to kiss her cheek.

Anyone watching would see nothing but a devoted husband greeting his beloved wife.

But my hand at her lower back gripped hard enough to make her stiffen.

"Smile for the cameras tonight, wife," I murmured darkly against her ear. "Play your part well. You’re good at pretending, aren’t you?"

I felt her flinch—just barely—but when she pulled back to look up at me, she was already smiling.

A perfect, polished, soulless smile.

It almost made me laugh.

We were two actors trapped in a nightmare script.

A fairytale poisoned at the roots.

And still—

Still when I offered my arm, she slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow with such ease, such practiced grace, you’d think she really loved me.

You’d think we were actually happy.

And I hated it.

I hated her.

I hated myself more.

Because deep down, buried so fucking deep I wanted to rip it out by the roots—

I wished it wasn’t fake.

I wished she meant it.

I wished I didn’t have to pretend.

But wishing didn’t change a goddamn thing.

So I walked her to the car.

Helped her inside like a gentleman.

Drove us both toward the waiting cameras, the press, the lies.

And every mile closer to that launch party, my hatred for her—and for myself—burned hotter.

********

The ride to the venue was suffocating.

The air between us was thick, heavy, filled with everything we weren’t saying.

Alexia sat perfectly composed beside me, her hands resting delicately on her lap.

The passing streetlights painted her in flashes of gold and shadow, highlighting the curve of her throat, the set of her jaw, the faint gloss on her lips.

She looked every inch the perfect wife.

Every inch the woman a man would kill to have on his arm.

And no one—not a goddamn soul—would ever guess that only hours ago, she’d been bent over, sobbing, broken, her body bearing the marks of my fury.

She turned slightly, glancing at me from the corner of her eye.

I ignored her.

Pretended I didn’t feel the weight of her gaze, the silent question she was too afraid to ask.

Pretended I didn’t notice the slight tremor in her hands when she shifted to adjust her dress.

Because if I acknowledged it—

If I acknowledged her—

It would make this harder.

And I couldn’t afford that.

I pulled into the private entrance reserved for us at the event hall.

Cameras already swarmed the red carpet out front.

Flashes exploded like miniature bombs, reporters jostling for position, the usual circus.

I cut the engine, exhaled slowly, and turned to her.

Her eyes—wide, uncertain, glassy—met mine for just a second before she dropped her gaze, a perfect picture of bashful affection.

Fucking actress.

I offered my hand wordlessly.

She hesitated, only a heartbeat, before slipping her fingers into mine.

Warm.

Soft.

Trembling.

I squeezed—hard enough to make her gasp—and then relaxed my grip, smiling like a man besotted with his bride.

"Showtime," I muttered under my breath.

She said nothing.

Only nodded slightly, gathering herself as we exited the car.

Immediately, a roar of cameras, shouts, flashing lights engulfed us.

"Mr. and Mrs. Timberlake! Over here!"

"Smile for the cameras!"

"One more, please!"

"Alexia! Aiden! Looking gorgeous as ever—can we get a kiss?"

I smiled.

Or at least something that resembled a smile.

One hand pressed firmly to the small of her back, guiding her toward the entrance with the practiced ease of a man who knew how to perform.

She kept up perfectly, matching my pace in her heels, the slight wobble invisible to anyone not looking for it.

Only I knew.

Only I could see the slight stiffness in her posture, the tension in her thighs.

The aftermath of my brutality that morning, hidden under silk and diamonds.

We paused before the main backdrop where the photographers clustered.

The PR team wanted a few official shots.

I turned to her, hand lifting to cup her cheek.

For a moment, she froze—

Just the slightest hitch in her breath—

Before she melted into it, leaning into my palm like a woman who adored her husband.

The camera flashes intensified.

"One kiss!" a photographer called.

I leaned in, brushed my lips lightly against hers.

Soft.

Deceptively sweet.

On the surface, a husband’s tender affection.

Underneath, a punishment.

A reminder.

Her lips trembled against mine, and I deepened the kiss just enough to make her gasp softly—

A sound that was immediately swallowed by the crowd’s cheers.

Perfect.

Fucking perfect.

We pulled apart, smiling like two fools in love, and continued inside.

The event hall was opulent.

Glass chandeliers.

Golden drapery.

Tables decked in black and silver, the theme colors of Timberlakes Enterprises’ newest luxury branch.

The room was already packed with the city’s elite—businessmen, celebrities, investors.

All eyes turned to us as we entered.

As they should.

The CEO and his stunning wife.

The fairytale couple.

The envy of every soul in the room.

"Mr. Timberlake!"

"Aiden!"

"So glad you could make it!"

I shook hands, nodded, gave clipped smiles.

My hand never left Alexia’s lower back, steering her through the throng like a man afraid to lose his prize.

Everywhere we went, people parted like the Red Sea.

Everywhere we went, they watched us.

Some with admiration.

Some with envy.

Some with lust.

I felt their eyes on her—on the curve of her hip, the length of her legs, the way her dress clung to her breasts.

Possessiveness flared hot and ugly in my chest.

She was mine.

Mine to hate.

Mine to break.

Mine to claim.

I pulled her closer.

She made a soft sound of protest—but it was masked perfectly with a breathy little laugh as she tilted her head to whisper something into my ear.

To the watching crowd, it must have looked intimate.

Playful.

Inside, I was seething.

Why the fuck did she have to look at me like that?

Why the fuck did her touch still burn through my skin like a brand?

Why couldn’t I stop wanting her even after everything she’d done?

Tobias approached from the side, handing me a glass of champagne.

He glanced at me quickly, reading my mood.

Smart man.

He said nothing.

Only melted back into the crowd like a ghost.

We moved from group to group, exchanging pleasantries, networking, playing the perfect couple.

And the entire time, my mind was a fucking battlefield.

Because while my hand rested casually on the small of her back, all I could think about was shoving her against a wall and fucking her until she screamed my name.

Because while she laughed and charmed the investors, all I could see was the girl bent over the table, whimpering as I made her pay for every sin she’d ever committed against me.

Because while the world saw a beautiful, radiant, adored wife—

I knew the truth.

And so did she.

After the speeches, after the obligatory handshakes and photos, after the PR bullshit, the party loosened.

Drinks flowed.

Music grew louder.

I felt Alexia stiffen beside me as a young executive leered a little too long at her legs.

I leaned in close, my mouth brushing her ear.

"Soak it in, sweetheart," I murmured darkly. "They’re all dying to fuck you. They all wish they were me."

She shivered.

Good.

Let her feel it.

Let her feel the same helplessness she’d once made me feel.

I caught the executive’s eye and smiled coldly.

He looked away fast.

Smart man.

Hours later, when it was finally acceptable to leave without offending anyone important, I steered her back toward the car.

She was exhausted.

I could see it in the way she swayed slightly in her heels.

Could see it in the faint bruises under her makeup, the exhaustion she tried so hard to hide.

I should have felt victorious.

Satisfied.

Instead, I just felt—

Empty.

Broken.

Because no matter how much she hurt, no matter how much she bled, it didn’t erase the past.

It didn’t erase the screams.

It didn’t erase the nights I’d spent curled on a stone floor, praying for death because of her.

It didn’t erase the part of me that still fucking loved her.

And that was the real torture.

That no matter how much I wanted to hate her—

No matter how much I told myself she deserved every second of this—

There was still a part of me, small and stupid and stubborn, that wanted to pull her into my arms and pretend none of it had ever happened.

But pretending had a price.

And I’d paid enough in blood and broken bones.

I wouldn’t let myself do it again.

Not for her.

Not for anyone.

I drove us home in silence, the tension so thick it was suffocating.

When we reached the villa, she hesitated by the car, clutching her clutch so tight her knuckles went white.

She knew what waited inside.

She knew the masks would fall.

I didn’t offer my hand this time.

Didn’t pretend.

Just stalked up the stairs without a word, hearing her soft, faltering footsteps behind me.

Tonight, the world had seen a perfect couple.

A fairytale.

Tonight, I’d played my role so fucking well, even I almost believed it.

But the truth waited in the dark corners.

In the bruises beneath her dress.

In the scars no amount of makeup could hide.

And no amount of champagne or flashing cameras could erase the truth of what we were:

Two monsters locked in a dance of hate and need and ruin.

Two souls bound together by the very sins that should have kept us apart.

And no matter how much I tried to deny it—

No matter how much I hated myself for it—

I was still hers.

Just like I’d always been.

Even when she broke me.

Even when she loved me.