The black SUV pulled into the valet lane of the Beverly Crest Grand Hotel, its sleek frame gleaming under the chandelier-lit entrance. Brooklyn sat perfectly still in the back seat, her palms sweaty against the satin clutch resting in her lap.
"You ready?" Damien asked beside her, his voice calm, practiced — like this was just another boardroom meeting.
She glanced at him. He was dressed in a black tux, crisp and flawless, with a silver cufflink gleaming on each wrist. His expression was unreadable as usual. But there was something different in his eyes tonight — a flicker of curiosity… or maybe tension.
Brooklyn took a shaky breath.
"As ready as I'll ever be," she murmured.
The door opened, and flashes erupted like lightning.
Cameras. Reporters. Paparazzi.
The moment Damien stepped out, voices called his name.
"Mr. Carter!"
"Over here!"
"Is that your wife?"
"Smile for the camera!"
Brooklyn froze.
Then Damien reached for her hand and helped her out with graceful ease. The crowd gasped — as if witnessing the moment Cinderella stepped out of the carriage.
Brooklyn's dress shimmered under the lights — a floor-length emerald green gown with a daring slit that revealed just enough leg to make headlines. Her dark curls cascaded over one shoulder, and her makeup was soft but fierce. She looked like a woman who belonged next to a billionaire.
And for tonight, she did.
---
The Red Carpet
They walked together, hand-in-hand, past the line of flashing bulbs.
Damien's grip was firm, grounding. Brooklyn followed his lead — pausing at designated photo spots, offering polite smiles, answering a few brief questions.
"How long have you been married?"
"Where did the wedding take place?"
"How did you two meet?"
Damien answered every question with ease.
"We kept it private."
"She's not just beautiful — she's brilliant."
"We met through mutual connections."
Brooklyn just smiled, letting him control the narrative. That was part of the deal.
But something inside her fluttered at his words. He was lying, sure — but somehow, the way he said "She's brilliant" felt real.
They reached the final photo point, and the photographer shouted, "Closer! Let's get a romantic shot!"
Damien pulled her to him, one hand on her waist.
Brooklyn's breath caught.
His face dipped toward hers, not quite kissing, but close — cheek to cheek, lips a whisper from her skin. She felt his warmth. Smelled his cologne. For a second, she forgot it was all for show.
Click. Click. Click.
"Perfect," the photographer said.
But the flutter in Brooklyn's chest didn't fade.
---
Inside the Gala
The ballroom was dripping in luxury — chandeliers, crystal wine glasses, silver cutlery. Waiters moved in perfect synchrony, trays of hors d'oeuvres balanced on white gloves. A live string quartet played near the fountain in the center.
Brooklyn had never been in a place like this. Never imagined she'd wear diamond earrings and sip champagne while standing beside a man who probably had a private jet parked somewhere nearby.
Damien leaned toward her, his voice low. "Stay close. Some of these people bite."
She smirked. "Rich people scare you?"
"No. I scare them."
She nearly laughed — until she realized he wasn't joking.
They mingled. Politely. Professionally. Damien introduced her as his wife. Each time, Brooklyn smiled and shook hands, hoping no one saw through the nerves tucked behind her polished exterior.
One woman, a red-lipped socialite named Camilla, held Brooklyn's hand a little too long.
"You're stunning," Camilla purred, eyeing her dress. "Where did Damien find you? You don't seem... his type."
Brooklyn smiled sweetly. "I didn't know billionaires had types. I thought they just bought whatever they wanted."
Camilla's smile faded just a little.
Damien overheard. His lips twitched in what might've been approval.
Later, at the table, Brooklyn leaned in. "You surround yourself with snakes."
"They're useful snakes," he said, sipping his wine.
"Must be lonely," she replied.
Damien glanced at her, expression unreadable. "I'm used to it."
---
A Whisper in the Dark
Dinner ended. The awards began. Brooklyn stood beside Damien near the edge of the ballroom, watching as names were called and donors applauded themselves.
Damien leaned in. "There's a patio out back if you need air."
She didn't answer right away.
Then she said softly, "Will you come with me?"
A pause.
Then he nodded.
Outside, the noise faded behind heavy double doors. The air was cooler, scented faintly with roses from the garden below. Brooklyn leaned against the marble railing, staring at the stars. Her heels ached. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.
"I thought pretending to be your wife would be easy," she said quietly. "But it's exhausting."
Damien stood beside her, hands in his pockets. "You're doing well."
"Is that your way of saying thank you?"
"I don't do gratitude," he replied.
She scoffed. "Of course not."
A silence settled.
Then he said, "I know tonight was a lot."
Brooklyn glanced at him. "You seem comfortable in rooms like this."
"I wasn't always," he said. "But money makes people forget your beginnings."
"What were your beginnings?"
He didn't answer.
She didn't push.
Instead, she asked, "Why do you hate questions?"
He looked at her — really looked. For a moment, his icy guard cracked.
"Because I've seen what people do with answers."
Brooklyn's heart pulled.
Before she could speak, the doors opened. A man in a navy suit approached — charming smile, warm eyes, maybe mid-thirties.
"Damien," he said, extending a hand. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight."
"Richard." Damien's tone cooled. "Didn't expect you either."
The tension was immediate.
Richard turned to Brooklyn. "And who might you be?"
"His wife," she said, raising her chin.
Richard smiled. "Ah, the mysterious bride. I've been dying to meet you."
Brooklyn offered her hand. His shake was firm, but his eyes lingered too long.
Damien stepped closer. Possessive. Protective.
"I think it's time we left," he said to Brooklyn.
She nodded.
But as they turned, Richard added softly, "Be careful who you trust, Mrs. Carter. Everything glittering in this city has teeth."
---
The Ride Home
They didn't speak in the car.
Damien stared out the window, jaw tight. Brooklyn replayed Richard's words in her head.
Everything glittering has teeth.
She wondered what kind of history Damien and Richard shared — but she knew better than to ask.
When they reached the penthouse, Brooklyn kicked off her heels and padded barefoot into the living room. Damien walked straight to the bar, pouring a glass of whiskey.
"You handled yourself well tonight," he said without turning.
She smiled faintly. "Even with Camilla the snake?"
"You put her in her place."
Brooklyn hesitated. "What about Richard?"
Damien tensed slightly. "He's irrelevant."
"Didn't feel that way."
"He's an opportunist. He only shows up when he smells weakness."
Brooklyn tilted her head. "Are you feeling weak?"
He turned toward her then, eyes sharp. "No. But I am feeling tired."
She didn't push. Just nodded and turned toward the hallway.
"Brooklyn," he said suddenly.
She paused.
"That question you asked earlier," he said. "About pretending."
She turned back.
"It's easier with you."
Her breath caught.
She didn't reply. Just walked slowly to her room, heart thudding louder than her heels on the marble floor.
---
That Night
Brooklyn lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again. But this time, something had changed.
Tonight, she didn't just play Damien's wife.
She felt like she became her — if only for a few hours.
And worse?
Some part of her didn't hate it.