Placeholder Wife Decides to Leave

The charity gala was a pageant of glass and light—a thousand glittering fragments of other people’s lives bouncing off the marble floors and mirrored walls. I stood at Vincent’s side in my ice-blue gown, the one Marlene from PR had chosen for me because it photographed well and matched the sapphire in my engagement ring. It was the kind of dress that made you look untouchable, which was the point. It was armor.

Vincent’s hand found my waist the second we stepped onto the carpet. His touch was practiced: fingers spread just enough to claim me, not enough to bruise. Cameras flashed. Reporters called his name, then mine, as if we were a team. The air was thick with perfume, anticipation, and the faint tang of resentment.

“Smile,” Vincent murmured, lips barely moving, his breath warm against my ear. “Let them see how happy we are.”

I tilted my face into a smile so polished it felt brittle, eyes fixed somewhere over the heads of the press. His arm tightened a fraction. To the world, we must have looked inseparable—a billionaire couple forged in scandal, now united against the world.

“Mr. Müller! Camila! Over here!”

Vincent’s grip didn’t falter. I could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his thumb pressed absently into my side as if staking a claim. For the briefest moment, I imagined the two of us as a portrait: all surface gloss, no depth.

Lucas trailed behind us, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jacket deliberately rumpled as if to mock the whole affair. When a photographer called his name, he rolled his eyes—a theatrical, unmistakable gesture of disdain. The flash caught him mid-sneer.

Inside, the ballroom shimmered with candlelight and crystal. Couples danced, laughter and music rising in elegant waves. Vincent played his part flawlessly—leaning in close, murmuring inside jokes for the benefit of onlookers, brushing imaginary lint from my shoulder.

I let him. I let him cup my elbow as we mingled, let him introduce me as “the one who keeps me out of trouble.” Each gesture was a performance, a set piece in a drama neither of us believed in. The applause, when it came, was for the illusion.

Lucas drifted between clusters of guests, never quite joining any conversation, his mouth twisted in a permanent half-smirk. More than once, I caught him watching me, his expression unreadable. When Vincent’s hand slipped from my waist to fetch drinks, Lucas sidled up beside me, gaze flicking pointedly to where Vincent was now chatting with Isabella Rossi—her dress a slip of black silk, her laughter ringing like a dare.

“Quite the show,” Lucas muttered, voice pitched low so only I could hear. “You two really should win an award for Best Performance.”

I kept my face neutral, knuckles white around my clutch. “Is it working?”

“For them?” He jerked his head toward the cameras. “Maybe. For you? I doubt it.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he melted back into the crowd, leaving me exposed beneath the ballroom’s unforgiving chandeliers.

After the gala, the car ride home was silent. Vincent’s hand remained at my waist until the penthouse elevator doors slid shut, releasing me like a prop finally no longer needed. I hung up my dress, washed off my makeup, and lay in bed listening to the city’s distant heartbeat, wondering how long I could keep breathing in the vacuum of this marriage.

The answer arrived the next morning, delivered in blocky headlines and cropped photographs. I found the newspapers stacked neatly outside our door, as if someone had arranged them for maximum humiliation.

“Vincent Müller and Wife: A Marriage in Name Only.”

Below the headline, a photo of Vincent’s arm around my waist, both of us smiling, perfectly posed. And beside us, Lucas—caught mid-roll of his eyes, lip curled in contempt, hands shoved in his pockets like he couldn’t wait to escape.

I stared at the image, bile rising. The article dissected our every movement, speculating about tension in the Müller family, quoting anonymous sources about cold dinners and separate bedrooms. I read it twice. My hands did not shake.

Vincent was already gone, his side of the bed cold, the scent of his cologne lingering faintly on the sheets. I poured myself coffee and watched the city turn gold, anger simmering beneath my skin. For once, it wasn’t at Vincent. Not entirely.

Lucas found me late that afternoon, after a day spent fielding calls from PR and family. He lingered in the foyer, hands jammed into his jacket, looking everywhere but at me. The air between us was thick with awkwardness.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “You got a minute?”

I didn’t answer, just stared. He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the floor.

“Look, about last night—about the gala. I screwed up.” His words came out fast, as if rehearsed. “I know those photos made it worse for you. I didn’t think—”

I cut him off. “Didn’t think, or didn’t care?”

His jaw tightened. “Both, maybe. I was pissed at Vincent. At all of this.” He gestured vaguely, as if the whole penthouse, the whole city, was the problem. “But you’re the one who gets burned, and that wasn’t fair. So… I’m sorry.”

The words hung between us, raw and unfamiliar. I waited for the familiar sting of sarcasm, but it didn’t come. Just silence, and Lucas’s awkward sincerity.

“Thank you,” I said at last. My voice sounded small, but steady. “I appreciate it.”

He nodded, shoulders relaxing minutely. “If you need me to talk to any of those vultures, just say the word.”

I almost smiled. Almost. “I think I can handle it.”

He grunted, turning away, but not before I caught the flicker of worry in his eyes. As the door clicked shut behind him, I felt the world tilt—just a little—on its axis. Maybe I wasn’t as alone in this house as I thought.

The next day, I made my way to Vincent’s office, my pulse a tight drumbeat in my throat. I needed to discuss the fallout, the next steps, the newest set of lies we’d have to tell. The waiting area outside his suite was empty, sunlight slanting in through glass walls, painting everything in sharp, unforgiving relief.

I reached for the handle, but the door opened before I could knock. Isabella Rossi stood inside, her hands smoothing Vincent’s tie, her fingers lingering far too long on the silk. She was close—too close—her body angled toward his, her lips parted in a soft, private smile.

Vincent didn’t see me at first. His eyes were on her, face unreadable.

Something inside me twisted—sharp, ugly, familiar. Jealousy, hot and cold at once, prickling beneath my skin. I wanted to look away, to pretend it meant nothing, but I couldn’t. I stood frozen, a silent witness to a moment I wasn’t meant to see.

Isabella stepped back, finally noticing me. Her smile didn’t falter. “Oh, Camila. We were just finishing up.”

Vincent’s gaze snapped to me, surprise flashing in his gray eyes before he masked it with that same cool detachment. “Camila. I didn’t expect you.”

It was the same line he’d used the last time. This time, I felt the weight of it, heavy and suffocating. I smoothed my skirt, forcing my voice steady. “I’m here about the press coverage.”

“Of course.” His tone was all business, but his eyes lingered too long on my face, as if searching for something—anger, accusation, anything. I gave him nothing.

Isabella lingered, her perfume cloying in the air between us. She collected her bag, brushing past me with a smirk so fleeting I almost doubted I’d seen it.

I stood in the doorway, spine straight, heart hammering. For a moment, Vincent and I simply stared at each other, the silence stretching taut. I swallowed the urge to demand an explanation, to ask questions I already knew the answers to.

Instead, I stepped into the office, closing the door behind me. Whatever we were, whatever we might become, would have to wait. For now, there was work to be done—and a marriage to keep up, even if only for the cameras.