The private jet touched down in Italy under a velvet dusk. Mountains rose like silent guards around the lake, the sky bleeding gold and ink. I watched from the window, my breath held tight in my chest.
Damian hadn't spoken a word since we boarded in New York.
I didn't expect warmth. But I didn't expect this hollowness either like I didn't exist unless cameras were around to prove it.
The car met us at the edge of the runway. Black, sleek, silent. Damian slid in first, jaw set, coat crisp, phone in hand. I followed without a word. Mark sat up front, stone-faced.
"We land to headlines," Mark muttered. "Be ready."
"I've never stopped being ready," I said softly.
Damian glanced at me then. Brief. Measuring. Nothing in his face gave him away.
—
The villa was carved into the cliffs above Lake Como, old stone glowing gold in the setting sun. Naomi met us at the doors with a clipboard and a headset, barking details like a general.
"Gown's upstairs. Hair and makeup now. Step out looking like a scandal, and we're done," she told me, her voice cool but not cruel. "This crowd is bloodthirsty."
As I took the box from her, she added low under her breath, "One more thing. Ethan Cole has been seen in Milan. Be careful tonight."
My fingers tightened around the box. "Thanks for the warning."
Naomi held my gaze for a second. "Don't let him get in your head."
I nodded once and turned away.
—
Inside the guest room, I opened the box Naomi handed me. The gown shimmered like crushed metal—slit high, neckline low, scandal wrapped in silk. I ran my fingers over the fabric, feeling both exposed and invisible.
A ghost in someone else's life.
—
The mirror didn't lie.
The woman staring back at me looked expensive. Untouchable. But her eyes were tired, her smile cracked at the edges. I didn't know who she was anymore just that she wasn't free.
A knock.
I turned as the door creaked open.
Damian stood there in a black tuxedo, all sharp lines and shadows. For a beat, he said nothing. His gaze flickered neckline, hem, and eyes.
A flicker. Then steel again.
"You're late," he said.
So was he, but I didn't bother pointing it out.
—
The car pulled up outside the estate where the gala was already roaring to life. Crystal lights. Champagne fountains. Cameras like blinking stars.
Flashbulbs exploded before the engine stopped.
Damian stepped out first, instantly consumed by the noise. Reporters shouted his name in three languages. Then he turned, extending a hand toward me.
I hesitated only a second.
Then I stepped out.
Shutters clicked like machine guns. The crowd surged forward. Voices barked.
"Ava, look here! Over the shoulder! Smile!"
"Is it true you used to date Ethan Cole?"
"Are you pregnant? Is this marriage real?"
The noise hit me like a wall. Blinding, suffocating.
I felt Damian's hand snake around my waist firm, possessive, and protective.
The first touch in days.
I flinched.
"Hold the smile," he murmured near my ear. "Or they'll eat you alive."
I swallowed hard and forced it. A perfect wife. A flawless accessory.
His fingers tightened slightly as if he sensed the war in my chest. The briefest squeeze. A human moment in a sea of performance.
Then the cameras got worse.
"Ethan said she's still his…. what do you say to that, Ava?"
A gasp caught in my throat.
I turned to Damian, but his face was unreadable. Stone. He didn't ask. He didn't flinch.
But his hand tensed.
I pulled away, barely, just enough for him to know I'd heard it too.
"Let's go inside," he said, his voice low and clipped.
The hall glittered like old money. Chandeliers dripped from twenty-foot ceilings, waiters floated with gold trays, and violins sang in the background.
But the noise from outside followed me in.
The name.
Ethan.
—
We moved through the crowd like royalty. Damian shook hands with ministers, CEOs, people with too much power and too little conscience. I stayed beside him, every smile carved onto my face like porcelain.
Then I saw him.
He stepped out from the crowd like a ghost conjured from memory. Tailored suit, easy smirk, and eyes that always knew where the bruise was—and pressed harder.
Ethan Cole.
My lungs froze.
Cold sweat kissed the back of my neck. A memory stabbed through me: a slammed door, my voice hoarse from shouting, his hand closing over my wrist too tight.
My stomach dropped.
He didn't belong here. He was the past. The lie I buried.
But there he was. Smirking.
And walking straight toward us.
I stepped slightly behind Damian.
It didn't matter.
"Still pretending you're not mine?" Ethan said smoothly, voice just loud enough for the people around us to hear.
Silence rippled.
Damian turned slowly, eyes like cut glass. The air changed. Chilled. The hand on my back disappeared.
A flicker of something passed between the two men. Like they already knew each other. Like something unspoken had already been said.
I felt the world tilt.
"Excuse me?" Damian's voice was lethal calm.
Ethan smiled wider. "You heard me."
And then—to me—"Tell your husband the truth, Ava."
My stomach dropped again.
People were watching. Phones were out.
Damian didn't move. He didn't speak.
But I saw it.
The storm behind his eyes.
I stepped forward and tried to speak. But no words came.
Ethan's smirk widened. "Didn't think I'd show, did you?"
I did now.
And I knew this was only the beginning.