Chapter 3 Cracks in the Façade

The photographs hit the tabloids by morning.

Cassandra sat at her breakfast table, silk robe tied neatly around her waist, staring at a glossy magazine spread. Damian’s arm was looped firmly around her in every shot, his smile sharp and confident, hers serene and practiced. In one image, he had bent close to whisper something that made her lips curve in a way that looked dangerously genuine.

The headline read: Cassandra Vale’s Mystery Rebel. Has the queen of the city finally chosen her king?

She tossed the magazine aside with more force than she intended.

It was supposed to be an act. A shield. Nothing more. Yet the photographs captured something that felt unsettlingly real.

When Damian arrived that afternoon, uninvited as always, he dropped another copy of the same magazine onto her table. “You look good in print, sweetheart,” he said with a grin. “Almost like you are enjoying yourself.”

Cassandra glared at him over the rim of her teacup. “You look like trouble. Which is exactly what they want.”

“That is exactly what you wanted too,” he replied. His tone carried no apology.

She hated that he was right.

The following week was filled with appearances. A charity auction, an art gallery opening, a rooftop dinner. Everywhere they went, Damian played the part with infuriating ease. He held doors open, leaned close with murmured jokes, and touched her hand just enough to make every onlooker believe.

Yet in private, he refused to follow her script.

One evening, after they returned from the gallery, Cassandra tried to retreat into her study, desperate for a moment of quiet. Damian followed her in, his presence filling the room.

“You should not be here,” she said sharply. “Our performance is complete for the night.”

He dropped into a chair as if it belonged to him. “Performance, yes. But tell me, Cassandra, do you even know who you are when the curtain falls?”

Her breath caught. No one spoke to her like that. People flattered her, envied her, whispered about her. No one dared cut through her armor.

“You know nothing about me,” she said.

“I know you sleep in a house full of mirrors,” Damian said softly, his grin fading for once. “And I know you hate every reflection.”

The words struck deeper than she expected. Her instinct was to laugh, to dismiss, but the sound would not come. Instead, she sank slowly into the chair across from him, eyes locked on his.

“You play the villain so well,” she said finally, her voice low. “But I think you wear masks too.”

He tilted his head, considering her. For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them shifted, heavy with something unspoken.

Their next event was a rooftop dinner, cameras waiting below to capture every glimpse of the city’s elite. As they stepped onto the terrace, Cassandra slipped seamlessly into her role, leaning into Damian’s arm, her smile cool and dazzling.

Halfway through the evening, one of the hosts, emboldened by champagne, teased them loudly. “Go on then, prove it. Let us see if this romance is real.”

The circle of guests erupted in laughter, clapping, egging them on. Cassandra’s stomach tightened. This was not part of the plan.

Before she could protest, Damian pulled her close. His hand curved around her jaw with a tenderness that startled her. And then his lips touched hers.

It was supposed to be staged. A simple answer to the crowd. But the moment stretched. His mouth was warm, firm, and devastatingly gentle. Cassandra felt the ground slip beneath her as she leaned in without meaning to, her heart beating so hard she was certain the guests could hear it.

When he finally drew back, the applause around them was thunderous. Damian only smirked, slipping back into his role with perfect ease. But Cassandra could not move. Her carefully constructed walls had cracked, and the crowd had seen it.

Later, when they were alone in the car, she could not bring herself to speak. Damian sat back, watching her with unreadable eyes.

Finally, he said quietly, “That felt real to you too.”

Cassandra turned sharply toward the window, desperate to hide the truth from him and from herself. “It was for them. Nothing more.”

His low laugh filled the car. Not mocking this time, but knowing. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. One day, you might even believe it.”

She closed her eyes, fingers trembling against her lap. For the first time in years, Cassandra Vale was not sure if she was acting anymore.