ABANDONED KING GETS HIS LOVE CONTRACT REVENGE

Chapter Six: The First Show The contract was signed three days ago. Just paper and ink, really. But somehow, it felt heavier than anything I'd ever signed before. Ethan's name was bold on the bottom, mine right beside it. Every time I looked at that page, I remembered his calm, cold, and steady voice. "You'll get your reputation back. I'll get mine under control." I told myself it was just business. That's what it had to be. But the truth? I wasn't sure anymore. The driver opened the door for me outside the hotel, and a wave of noise hit instantly, cameras, flashes, the chorus of a hundred voices shouting my name. "Yvonne! Over here!" "Yvonne Wells, is it true you're dating Ethan Hank?" "Smile for us!" I stepped out slowly, the fabric of my dress catching the light. A deep red gown, Ethan's choice, of course. "Red stands out," he'd said. "It'll make them look." And he was right. They were looking. The flashes were almost blinding, but I smiled through them, my hand gripping my clutch a little too tightly. Every instinct screamed to run, to hide, but I stayed. Because this was the deal. The show. The crowd suddenly erupted louder, and I knew he was here before I even turned. Ethan Hank. He walked toward me like the world already belonged to him tall, calm, unbothered by the chaos around us. The black suit, the quiet confidence, the way he nodded politely to cameras without giving too much it was all deliberate. Controlled. When he reached me, his eyes met mine, and something in my chest shifted. "You look different in red," he said quietly, just loud enough for me to hear. "Good or bad?" His lips curved slightly. "Good." He offered his arm. I hesitated for half a second before taking it. His skin was warm, solid, a strange comfort in all that noise. As we stepped onto the carpet, the world exploded again. Flashes. Questions. Laughter. A blur of faces, microphones, perfume, and lights. I smiled, waved, leaned closer to Ethan when he did every gesture rehearsed, but somehow, every second felt dangerously real. We stopped in front of the press wall. Ethan's hand slipped around my waist, his touch firm but not possessive. The crowd went wild. Cameras clicked like thunder. "Look happy," he murmured near my ear. His voice was low, steady, the kind that made you want to listen. "I'm trying," I whispered back. "Then don't try. Just be." It sounded simple, but it wasn't. How was I supposed to be when every second of this was pretend? Then, without warning, he turned his head slightly, close enough that our faces nearly touched. He didn't kiss me. He didn't have to. The air between us did enough damage. I could feel his breath, smell the faint trace of his cologne, clean, sharp, expensive. It wasn't fair how calm he looked while I was trying to remember how to breathe. The photographers screamed louder. Click. Click. Click. And just like that, the story was written. Inside the gala hall, everything glittered, gold chandeliers, champagne glasses, a sea of designer dresses. But all I could feel was the thud of my heartbeat and the weight of his hand still on my back. We found our table near the front. Derrick was there, of course, smiling too wide, drinking too much. His eyes lingered on me longer than I liked. "Yvonne Wells," he said, raising his glass. "Didn't expect to see you here, but you make the room look better already." "Careful," Ethan said lightly, his tone smooth but with an edge underneath. "She's taken, remember?" Derrick chuckled. "Right, the power couple of the year." I smiled politely, hiding the unease curling in my stomach. There was something about Derrick's grin that didn't sit right. The rest of the night passed in slow motion speeches, laughter, fake conversations. Ethan handled it all effortlessly. He was a master at this game polite, distant, perfectly composed. I, on the other hand, was trying not to drown in nerves. But every time I faltered, he noticed. A hand steadying mine under the table. A quiet glance said, you're fine. Little things that shouldn't have meant anything... but did. When the lights dimmed for the closing ceremony, I leaned closer and whispered, "How do you stay so calm?" He turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "You learn to stop caring." I wanted to ask if that was true if he really didn't care, or if he'd just taught himself to pretend he didn't. But before I could, the applause started, and the moment was gone. Later, outside, when the crowd had thinned, we stood near the car. The night air was cooler now, softer. "You did well," he said. "I didn't trip or cry," I said. "That's a win in my book." He almost smiled. "You handled yourself better than most. The press will eat it up." I crossed my arms. "You make it sound like we're puppets on a stage." He looked at me then really looked. "We are. But at least we're the ones holding the strings." Something in his voice made my chest ache. I wanted to ask what made him so guarded, so certain that control was the only way to survive. But I stopped myself. It wasn't my place. Not yet. The driver opened the car door, and we got in. The city blurred past outside, lights streaking like memories. For a while, neither of us spoke. Then I said quietly, "You know, you're good at pretending." He turned his head slightly, eyes meeting mine in the reflection. "So are you." I smiled faintly "Maybe that's why this will work." He didn't respond, just leaned back, watching the city disappear behind us. But I could feel the air shift something unsaid hovering between us. Not love, not even affection. Just a strange understanding. Two people who'd both lost too much, now playing a game they couldn't afford to lose. When we reached my apartment, he walked me to the door. The street was quiet, the air still. "This was just the beginning," he said softly. "Tomorrow it gets louder." I nodded. "I'll be ready." He looked at me for a long moment, then turned to leave. But before he did, he said, "You did more than play your part tonight, Yvonne. You reminded me what silence used to sound like." I didn't understand what he meant, not fully. But I knew it came from somewhere real. When he left, I leaned against the door, heart pounding. My cheeks were warm, my thoughts a mess. It was supposed to be fake. All of it. But something about tonight didn't feel fake at all. And that scared me more than anything else.