The Billionaire’s Reluctant Bride 4
The world I’ve entered feels like an entirely different realm–a futuristic terrain of gleaming glass and steel illuminated by artificial lights. Every detail of Alexander’s life radiates a level of perfection that feels beyond my understanding, let alone my ability to replicate.
It’s a world where people wear confidence like armor, where wealth is the only language spoken, and where the air feels thinner, sharper, as though it’s been conditioned for someone stronger than me.
Tonight is the first of many events Alexander has insisted I attend with him. A charity gala. A routine part of his life, but for me, it feels like a performance I wasn’t trained for.
My gown clings too tightly to my frame, the shoes pinch my feet, and every smile I offer feels like it’s held together with invisible threads that might snap at any moment.
“Relax,” Alexander says beside me as we step into the grand ballroom. His voice is low, smooth, but there’s no warmth in it. It’s a command not
reassurance.
“I’m trying,” I respond, my voice almost lost amid the clinking of champagne glasses and the echoing of laughter that fills the room.
I gaze towards him, searching for any clue that he could detect how misplaced I feel. But his face remains impassive, his jaw tight, his eyes roaming the room like a hunter surveying its space.
“You’ll be fine,” he says, his tone abrupt and disengaged.
“Just smile and nod. Don’t engage in anything you’re not comfortable with.”
I bristle at his words. Smile and nod. As though I’m a doll, here to complement him, not to be seen or heard.
“I didn’t realize I was here to be a prop,” I say before I can stop myself.
He stops walking, turning to face me. For a moment, I see something flicker in his eyes–surprise, maybe? Amusement? It’s gone too quickly for me to
be sure.
“You’re not a prop, Leila,” he says, his voice lower now, quieter. “But appearances matter in this world. More than you realize.”
“And what about what I want?” I ask, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “Does that matter at all?”
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. Instead, he stretches out his arm to me–I take it reluctantly, and we both move into the room.
The room fills with discussions, bursts of laughter, and soft music playing in the background. Everywhere I turn, I see individuals impeccably dressed- wonderful outfits catching the light with every movement and different suits that are tailored to perfection.
Through the room, they glide with a poise I can only envy, with a certain voice that feels absolutely out of reach.
“Alexander,” a man’s voice calls out, pulling my attention. A tall, silver–haired man with a sharp suit approaches us with a glass of wine in his right hand and the bottle in the other. “It’s been too long.”
“Richard,” Alexander says, his tone smooth and clean, it is the kind of voice he reserves for people that he tolerates but doesn’t confide in. “It’s good to see you.”
The two men exchange pleasantries, their words notably sharp and practised just like a script they’ve rehearsed multiple times. I stand silently beside Alexander, I don’t know if I should speak or if my presence is even necessary.
“And this must be your wife,” Richard says, his gaze shifting to me. His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Leila, is it?”
“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Charming,” Richard says, though there’s something sharp in his tone, something that makes my stomach twist. “You’ve done well for yourself, Alexander. She’s lovely,”
I glance at Alexander, waiting for him to respond, but he says nothing. His expression remains neutral, unreadable. The silence stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable.
“Enjoy the evening,” Richard says finally, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he turns and disappears into the crowd.
I exhale quietly, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “He seems… nice,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
Alexander’s lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smile. “Richard is a snake,” he says simply. “Don’t trust a word he says.”
“Good to know,” I reply, though his words only make me feel more out of place.
As the evening drags on, I find myself standing alone by the bar while Alexander mingles with his business associates. He moves through the crowd easily, his every step confident, his every word deliberate. He belongs here in a way I never will.
1/2
CHAPTER 8
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“Champagne?” a voice asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I turn to see a woman standing next to me, her red gown is impeccably embracing her figure. She’s looking beautiful. She is the kind of woman who commands attention quite easily without hardly lifting a finger.
“Oh, no thank you,” I say, offering a polite smile.
“You’re Leila, aren’t you?” she asks, her tone friendly but curious. “Alexander’s wife?”
“Yes,” I reply, my smile faltering slightly. It still feels strange to hear the words out loud.
“I’m Sabrina,” she says, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. “I work with Alexander. Well, indirectly. I’m with the Hawke Foundation.”
I shake her hand, my grip probably weaker than it should be. “Meeting you is great.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying me with a look I can’t quite decode. “You’re new to this, right?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Is it that obvious?”
She laughs softly, her smile warm. “Just a little. Don’t worry, though. It takes time to adjust.”
“Adjust to what?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Feeling like I don’t belong?”
Her expression softens, and for a moment, I think she might offer some kind of reassurance. But instead, she says, “You’ll figure it out. Or you won’t. Either way, you’ll survive. We always do.”
The words leave me feeling more unsettled than comforted. Before I can respond, Sabrina is gone, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost.
By the time the evening ends, my feet ache, my head pounds, and my nerves are frayed. In silence, Alexander and I ride back to the penthouse. The only sound between us is the hum of the car’s engine. I glance at him, contemplating whether he feels as drained as I do, but his expression is as calm and composed as ever.
When we reach the penthouse, he steps out first, holding the door open for me. His movements are smooth and effortless, and I feel
lacking tact in comparison as I climb out of the car.
“Goodnight, Leila,” he says as we step inside, his voice polite but distant.
“Goodnight,” I answer, though the word feels empty.
As he disappears down the passage toward his office, I’m left standing alone in an empty living room. The quietness settles over me again and heavier than before.
I sit down on the couch looking at the city lights past the window. The world out there feels so far off, so unattainable. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something–something very significant.
As I begin to float into my viewpoints, I hear a faint sound–It’s Alexander’s voice, low and earnest, coming from his office. I can’t figure out the words precisely, but the tone I heard sends a chill down my spine.
Against my better judgment, I rise from the lounge chair and move toward the entryway, pressing my ear against the cold wood. “She’s not ready,” Alexander says, his voice sharp. “But she will be.”
My breath catches. Who is he talking about? And why does it sound like he’s talking about me?
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