His Counterfeit Bride

e house pressing in on me. The sunlight that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated dust motes dancing in the air, but somehow it felt sterile, disconne

aid out, and George, the private driver, a st

t. I missed the comforting clutter of my old apartment, the familiar clang of the diner, even the noise of the street outside my window. Here

a small island of authenticity in a sea of artifice. I often sat there, sketching in a new pad I'd managed to procure, letting the charcoal move freely, capturing the subtle nuances of the trees, the fleeting expressions of people walking far below. It was my rebellion,

ticulously planned by Mr. Harrison and executed with Ronan's unwavering expectations. There were exclusive luncheons with potential investors, private dinner parties with influential art collectors (

d intimately tender to outsiders. His "Vale smile" was omnipresent, charming everyone from skeptical board members to society columnists. But the moment we were out of the public e

remarked after a diplomatic luncheon. "It almost broke character. Remember, we met a

ot, he'd observed, "Your laugh, Sophie. It's too genuine. Less effusive. Mo

me. He saw me as an extension of his brand, a prop in his carefully constructed world. He rarely, if ever, asked abou

rom a particularly stifling charity dinner. I was exhausted, the elegant dress from the Thorne gala

. "My public image is meticulously cultivated. It is a tool. A weapon. It ensures the success of Vale Luxuries. And given the stakes involved in the Thorne acquisition, it is a tool I wield w

ic. His grass-to-grace story, which I'd studied so diligently for Mr. Harrison, made sense in this context. He had f

nstant pressure. I stumbled slightly on the steps of the mansion. Before I could catch myself, Ronan's hand had shot out, steadying my arm with surprising speed and strength. His touch was brief, almost c

t a low murmur that only I could hear, "If you're bored, look at the prices. It might entertain you." There was a dry, almost cynical humor in his tone that I hadn't heard before, a sliver

sistent, convincing performance. But with progress came increased scrutiny. A rival luxury conglomerate, the Dubois Group, was actively trying to outbid Ronan, planting skeptical articles in business journals and

er, had, surprisingly, proven to be a silent ally. He would often find a "reason" to pull over, or drive a sligh

uld whisper into the phone, my vo

ger than before. "The new medication seems to be helping. And the doctors, they're so optimis

I spoke of a "new opportunity," a "very demanding project" that required my full attention. Tabitha, ever trusting, bought it. And in those moments, clutching my phone in

h books that looked genuinely read, and smelled faintly of old leather and rich cof

. They will be attempting to uncover any weakness in my bid for Thorne & Co. That includes probing into our... relationship." He

ightening. "I unde

me for a moment longer than usual. "You've adapted quickly. Most peo

ing, for a hint of something beyond mere observation, but his face remained a carefully constructed mask. Was it a calculated observation, meant t

with each forced smile and fabricated intimacy, the lines between Sophie Carrington and the woman I pretended to be became increasingly blurred, making m