[POV Ariel]
It happened on a Monday. No flowers. No music. No tears.
Just a bored judge in a beige courthouse, a stack of signed documents, and Sloane Wayne in a charcoal suit so sharp it could’ve cut glass.
We stood side by side, two strangers bound by necessity. My fingers were cold. His was steady.
The vows were recited like legal clauses:
“I do.” He didn’t flinch.
Neither did I. “I do.”
The ring was simple—thin white gold, cold against my skin. I stared at it for a moment after the ceremony, like it belonged to someone else. Someone who believed in things like weddings and husbands and futures that weren’t written in ink and strategy.
Sloane leaned in slightly, close enough that his breath skimmed my cheek.
“Smile,” he murmured. “We’re being watched.”
So I smiled. And just like that, Ari Winters became Mrs. Wayne. On paper.
That evening, we hosted a small reception on the upper floor of Wayne Publishing. Champagne, catered hors d’oeuvres, a soft jazz quartet, and a carefully curated guest list of executives, board members, and journalists.
We worked the room like seasoned politicians.
I played my part perfectly—polite laughter, subtle touches on his arm, the kind of glances that said we shared inside jokes, private history. But it was him who surprised me.
Sloane Wayne was charming. Effortlessly, dangerously charming.
He greeted every guest with a firm handshake and a perfectly timed smile. He answered questions about our relationship with convincing warmth, weaving a narrative of late-night edits, creative tension, and slow-burning affection.
But the part that shook me—really shook me—was when his hand settled on the small of my back. Firm, warm, possessive. Like he couldn’t help but touch me. Like he wanted to.
When I glanced up at him, expecting the usual glint of calculation in his eyes, I found something softer. Almost... sincere.
It passed quickly. Gone like mist. But it had been there. And I didn’t know what to do with that.
Three days later, I moved into the penthouse.
The guest suite was enormous—bigger than my entire apartment. Clean lines, soft gray sheets, minimal furniture. No personal touches. No warmth. Just like him.
We didn’t speak much that morning. I unpacked in silence while he worked in his office. Our paths crossed in the kitchen once, a brief exchange over coffee.
“I prefer almond milk,” I said, eyeing the contents of the fridge.
“You can have it stocked. My assistant will set it up.”
His tone was clipped. Civil. Distant.
And just like that, the soft warmth from the reception was gone. I reminded myself that it was never real to begin with. The next day at work, our carefully drawn lines were already smudging.
It started in the executive meeting.
We were reviewing the upcoming merger proposals for a smaller tech publication when Sloane dropped a bomb mid-discussion.
“I’ve decided we’ll move forward with the acquisition and restructure their editorial department. Half of it, at least, is redundant.”
I straightened in my chair. “We haven’t even reviewed their quarterly projections.”
He didn’t look at me. “Their branding is outdated. Their growth has stalled. It’s a cleanup job.”
I forced my voice to stay level. “Or it’s an opportunity for revitalization. With the right investment, we could turn their team into a digital powerhouse.”
“They’re overhead.”
“They’re talent.”
He finally looked at me. “You’re letting sentiment cloud your judgment.”
“And you’re letting ego cloud yours.”
A few executives shifted awkwardly in their chairs. The tension in the room spiked like static.
Sloane leaned forward. “The decision’s been made.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Then expect the staff blowback. And maybe have PR draft your apology now, because you’ll need it.”
The meeting ended five minutes later, with an ice storm hanging between us.
So much for peaceful coexistence.
That evening, we were due at the Rose & Ink Foundation’s annual charity gala. I barely had time to change into my navy gown before the car arrived.
Sloane waited by the door, already in a tux, not even pretending to be impressed.
“You’re late,” he said.
“You’re smug.”
“Glad we’re keeping it consistent.”
The ride to the venue was silent. Our anger simmered beneath our polished exteriors like pressure under glass. But the moment we stepped into the ballroom, everything changed.
We were perfect again. To everyone else, we were magnetic.
His hand found my waist. My fingers curled around his arm. We smiled, whispered, laughed. Every word was calculated. Every touch a signal.
We were playing a game, and we were winning.
Until I heard my name.
Not Ari.
“Ariel?”
I turned slowly.
The voice came from a man in his early thirties, sandy hair and wire-frame glasses. He looked stunned. I felt the blood drain from my face.
“Caleb?” I managed, my voice low.
He grinned. “Wow. It’s really you. Ariel Newman. God, it’s been... what, eight years since college?”
I felt Sloane go still beside me.
“Hi,” I said quickly. “It’s been a long time.”
Caleb’s eyes darted to Sloane, then back to me. “Wait—are you married? I saw your name in the papers, but it said Ari Winters—”
“I go by that professionally,” I cut in. Too fast. Too sharp.
Sloane’s hand tightened on my waist. He didn’t say anything, but his body went rigid.
Caleb smiled awkwardly. “Right, of course. I guess I just... it’s a bit of a shock. You kind of disappeared after graduation.”
I laughed, but it sounded fake even to me. “New chapter. You know how it is.”
“Well, congrats. Really. I should get back to my table, but... wow. It’s great seeing you.”
“You too,” I said, already turning away.
We moved through the ballroom like nothing had happened, but I could feel it—the shift.
Sloane waited until we were in a quieter hallway before speaking.
“Who was that?”
“No one important.”