Chapter 3 Under the Gaze of the City

Evelyn

The interior of the limousine was a cocoon of plush leather and hushed silence, a stark contrast to the thumping of my heart. Through the tinted windows, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and crimson as we sped towards our destination. Alexander sat opposite me, his profile stark and unyielding against the passing urban glow. He was scrolling through a tablet, his attention seemingly miles away, yet I felt his presence, a cold, almost palpable weight in the confined space.

My fingers instinctively went to the pearl necklace Clara had fastened; the cool smoothness was a small anchor in a sea of overwhelming newness. Just hours ago, I was Evelyn Hayes, an artist facing financial ruin. Now, I was Evelyn Sterling, a woman draped in designer silk, on her way to a high society dinner. The transformation felt surreal, a costume I hadn't chosen but was forced to wear.

"Remember the protocol, Mrs. Sterling," Alexander's voice cut through the silence, flat and devoid of emotion. He didn't look up from his tablet. "Smile. Nod. Answer briefly if necessary, but defer all significant questions to me. The media will be ravenous."

"I understand," I replied, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. Ravenous. The word hung in the air, a chilling premonition. He wasn't wrong. A sudden, secret marriage to a billionaire was prime fodder for the tabloids. My quiet, anonymous life was officially over.

He finally looked up, his storm-grey eyes piercing. "Good. Avoid any personal anecdotes. Keep it professional. Our union is, as stated, a matter of convenience, for public image. The less 'personal' information out there, the better."

A retort almost slipped out, a sharp reminder that I was a person, not an object. But I swallowed it. This was his world, his rules. And my family's future depended on my compliance. I simply nodded.

The limousine slowed, then stopped. An explosion of light assaulted my eyes. Flashes, blinding and incessant. A roar of voices, indistinguishable yet demanding. The car door was opened by a discreet bodyguard, and the full force of the media circus hit me.

I gripped the strap of my clutch bag, my knuckles white. This was it. My debut.

Alexander, with an almost imperceptible shift, moved to my side. His hand, cool and firm, rested lightly on the small of my back, a purely performative gesture that sent shivers down my spine. It was a possessive gesture, meant for the cameras, asserting ownership. For a terrifying second, I felt like a trophy, polished and paraded.

"Mr. Sterling! Mrs. Sterling! Over here!" shouts erupted from every direction.

He guided me forward, his body a solid barrier against the surging crowd. He offered a practiced, almost imperceptible smile to the cameras, a tight, controlled expression that conveyed nothing beyond polite acknowledgment. I tried to emulate him, my smile feeling stiff and fake. The flashes continued, painting my vision with white spots.

"How does it feel to be the new Mrs. Sterling?" a voice screamed, closer than the others.

Alexander's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on my back. "We're delighted to share our happiness with you," he stated, his voice calm, projecting effortlessly over the din. "But tonight is about Senator Maxwell's charity. We're here to support a good cause." His words were a masterful deflection, polite but firm, shutting down further personal questions.

We moved quickly through the gauntlet, past the velvet ropes, and into the hushed elegance of the hotel ballroom. The contrast was jarring. One moment, blinding chaos. The next is subdued light, soft music, and the clinking of glasses.

The ballroom was magnificent, adorned with fresh flowers and crystal chandeliers that glittered like frozen stars. A sea of well-dressed faces turned towards us, murmuring. My presence beside Alexander was the evening's main attraction, despite his efforts to divert attention.

He led me to a group of men in expensive suits, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and shrewd assessment. "Senator Maxwell," Alexander greeted, extending his hand. "Thank you for having us."

"Alexander. And this must be the lovely Mrs. Sterling," Senator Maxwell said, his eyes, surprisingly warm, sweeping over me. He was a portly man with a kind smile. "A pleasure to finally meet you, my dear."

"The pleasure is all mine, Senator," I managed, offering my practiced smile. My mind raced, trying to recall any details about him from the brief briefing Clara had given me. The key political figure, old family money, influential.

Alexander made the introductions. "Evelyn, this is Senator Maxwell. And his wife, Eleanor." A tall, elegant woman, her eyes shrewd but not unkind, offered me a gracious smile.

The conversation flowed around me, mostly centered on politics, business, and vague philanthropic endeavors. I listened, nodding, offering brief, generic responses when prompted. My mind, however, kept drifting back to the wooden box. The memory of the boy, Al. His laughter. It was an insistent echo in the back of my mind, warring with the cold, controlled man beside me.

Could this Alexander, the one who navigated this high-stakes world with such ruthless precision, truly be that boy? The thought was absurd. Yet, the memory was vivid. Too vivid to dismiss.

I glanced at Alexander. He was engaged in a deep conversation with Senator Maxwell, his expression serious, intense. He looked utterly in his element, a king on his throne. There was no trace of the boy in my memory, no hint of vulnerability, only unyielding power. It made me doubt myself. Was I truly grasping at straws? Was my mind simply conjuring images to cope with the overwhelming reality of my new life?

Later, as trays of champagne flutes circulated, I found myself momentarily separated from Alexander, drawn into a polite conversation with Mrs. Eleanor Maxwell. She was asking about my interests.

"Alexander mentioned you're an artist, dear," she said, her voice soft. "How wonderful! Do you have a studio here in the city?"

My heart squeezed. A studio. My dream. "Not yet," I replied, a wistful note in my voice. "But I hope to find one soon." It was a lie, of course. My contract with Alexander likely had clauses preventing me from pursuing a public career, or at least one that might detract from my role as his wife.

Mrs. Maxwell's eyes held a spark of understanding. "It must be quite a change, stepping into such a public role so suddenly. Are you adjusting well?"

Her genuine concern was disarming. "It's... a learning curve," I admitted, a small, genuine smile finally touching my lips. "A very steep one."

She chuckled softly. "Indeed. Alexander is a formidable man. But he is a good man, Evelyn. Fiercely loyal to those he cares about." Her gaze flickered towards Alexander, a tenderness in her eyes that hinted at a long, deep understanding. "He keeps his true self well-guarded, but it is there."

Her words hit me. Keeps his true self well-guarded. Could that "true self" be the boy from my memory? The one who made me the wooden box? The idea was both terrifying and tantalizing. It implied a hidden depth to Alexander, a secret that might connect us beyond this cold contract.

Just then, Alexander joined us, his face returning to its impassive mask. "Eleanor, I hope Evelyn isn't boring you with talk of art." His tone was light, but there was an edge to it, a subtle warning.

Mrs. Maxwell merely smiled. "Not at all, Alexander. Evelyn is quite charming. We were discussing her adjustment to city life." She gave my arm a gentle squeeze.

"Indeed," Alexander said, his gaze briefly meeting mine. For a moment, I felt a strange current pass between us, a silent challenge, a silent question. Did he know what Mrs. Maxwell had implied? Did he know what I was starting to suspect?

Alexander

The flashbulbs were a familiar irritation, a necessary evil. I tightened my grip on Evelyn's back, guiding her through the gauntlet of the press. She was pale, her eyes wide, but she moved with a surprising composure. Better than I expected. No hysterics, no stumbling. She simply absorbed the onslaught, her compliance a testament to her desperation. Or perhaps her quiet strength.

"How does it feel to be the new Mrs. Sterling?" A voice shrieked. Predictable.

"We're delighted to share our happiness with you," I said, my voice projecting effortless authority, cutting through the noise. "But tonight is about Senator Maxwell's charity. We're here to support a good cause." The deflection was smooth and practiced. Shut them down before they get started.

Inside the ballroom, the immediate tension eased, replaced by the murmuring hum of polite society. Evelyn stayed close, a silent shadow. She was beautiful in the sapphire gown, a stark contrast to her humble origins. She drew attention, exactly as planned. A perfect accessory.

I led her to Senator Maxwell, my focus immediately shifting to the evening's true purpose. The infrastructure project was critical, and Maxwell's support was paramount. Evelyn's role was simple: be presentable, be quiet, and be my wife.

"Alexander. And this must be the lovely Mrs. Sterling," Maxwell said, his eyes assessing Evelyn with a practiced politician's gaze.

"The pleasure is all mine, Senator," she replied, her voice surprisingly clear. She was playing her part well. I introduced her to Eleanor Maxwell, the Senator's sharp, elegant wife.

As I steered the conversation towards business, I kept a peripheral eye on Evelyn. She listened intently, nodding in the right places, offering brief, appropriate responses. She blended in, almost too well. My decision to choose someone from outside my circle, someone untainted by society gossip and corporate maneuvering, was proving astute. She was an empty slate, easily molded to the narrative I needed.

Yet, there was that unsettling current. That flash of memory in my office. The dull throb in my head, a constant reminder of the past I refused to acknowledge. And her reaction to the small wooden box, as reported by Clara. Disoriented. Had it truly triggered something? Or was it just the overwhelming change in her life? I needed to know. I needed to ensure my control was absolute.

I observed her as she spoke with Eleanor Maxwell. Eleanor, sharp as she was, had a soft spot for sincerity. If Evelyn presented herself as truly overwhelmed, truly genuine, Eleanor would respond to it. I couldn't have my fragile facade chipped away so early.

"Alexander mentioned you're an artist, dear," I heard Eleanor say. My jaw tightened. Art. A weakness. A pursuit I'd long abandoned, deemed inefficient and useless.

"Not yet," Evelyn replied, and I caught the wistful undertone. "But I hope to find one soon." A fleeting thought crossed my mind. Was she truly a romantic idealist? Or was she cunning, playing a role to gain sympathy?

"It must be quite a change, stepping into such a public role so suddenly. Are you adjusting well?" Eleanor's voice was gentle.

"It's... a learning curve," Evelyn admitted, with a small, genuine smile. "A very steep one." This was the dangerous part. The genuine vulnerability.

"Indeed. Alexander is a formidable man. But he is a good man, Evelyn. Fiercely loyal to those he cares about." Eleanor's words were a double-edged sword. True, perhaps, to a select few. But certainly not to a contractual wife. And her implication of my "true self" being guarded was far too close to the bone.

I moved to join them, injecting myself into the conversation. "Eleanor, I hope Evelyn isn't boring you with talk of art." My tone was light, but the underlying message was clear: Stay on script, Mrs. Sterling.

Eleanor merely smiled, unperturbed. "Not at all, Alexander. Evelyn is quite charming. We were discussing her adjustment to city life." She gave Evelyn's arm a gentle squeeze, a gesture of almost motherly comfort.

"Indeed," I said, my gaze briefly meeting Evelyn's. Her eyes held a mixture of defensiveness and probing curiosity. She was trying to read me, to understand. And that was a problem. She was not supposed to look, not supposed to question. She was supposed to comply.

The dinner was a long, excruciating performance. I made the necessary connections, ensured Senator Maxwell's commitment, and maintained the image of a happily if suddenly, married man. Evelyn played her part flawlessly. She smiled, she nodded, and she deflected with grace when needed. She was a natural, almost alarmingly so.

As the evening wound down and we headed back to the limousine, the street was mercifully clearer of the press. The air was cool, a welcome respite from the stifling formality of the ballroom. I settled into my seat, a weariness I hadn't realized I carried weighing on me.

"That was... an experience," Evelyn said, breaking the silence. Her voice was quiet, almost reflective. She looked out the window at the city lights.

"You handled yourself well," I conceded. It was as close to praise as I would allow myself.

She turned to me, her eyes thoughtful. "Senator Maxwell's wife, Eleanor, said something interesting."

My guard immediately went up. "Oh?"

"She said you keep your true self well-guarded." Her gaze was direct, unwavering. "Is that true, Mr. Sterling?"

Her question hung in the air, audacious and unsettling. No one, absolutely no one, dared to probe me so directly. Especially not my contractual wife. The headache behind my eyes flared into a blinding pain. The image of the wooden box, the soft rain, and the boyish grin flooded my mind.

"My true self, Mrs. Sterling," I said, my voice dangerously low, "is exactly what you see. A man who demands order, efficiency, and discretion. Anything else is irrelevant." I needed to shut this down, now.

"I see," she murmured, but her eyes held a flicker of doubt, a hint of something unyielding. She didn't believe me. And that was a fundamental flaw in our contract.

"Good," I stated, turning my gaze back to the window, willing the conversation to end.

But the seed was planted. She was curious. She was questioning. And the more she questioned, the more she might uncover. That fragmented memory of hers. The wooden box. If she put the pieces together, if she truly remembered our shared childhood, the truth of my past, the reason I married her, would come crashing down around us. And that was a secret I would go to any length to protect. The fragile peace of my carefully constructed world was already starting to crack, and I knew, with terrifying certainty, that Evelyn Hayes, my reluctant bride, was the fault line.