The cameras had long stopped flashing, the guests had gone home. The perfect couple—that’s what they all saw. The elegant wedding, the whispered compliments, the knowing smiles.

A lavender marriage. A mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing real.

Except now, as you sat on the edge of the bed, struggling with the zipper of your dress, fingers trembling more than you wanted to admit, Damiano was still here.

Watching. Not with amusement. Not with indifference. But with something else. Something unreadable.

"Turn around."

You exhaled, exhausted, but obeyed. His fingers brushed against your back, warm despite the cool air between you. The zipper slid down smoothly, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

"You did good today." His voice was quieter now.

"I know." You forced a smirk, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "I should get an award for that performance."

Damiano huffed a laugh, but there was no real humor in it. His hands lingered at your waist for just a second too long before he pulled away.

"You don’t have to keep doing that, you know. Pretending with me."

Your throat tightened. That was the worst part, wasn’t it? That even behind closed doors, it was easier to keep the mask on.

You swallowed hard. "And what if I don’t know how to stop?"

Damiano didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for his jacket, draping it over your shoulders without a word. The scent of leather and faint cigarette smoke clung to the fabric, grounding you in a way you didn’t expect.

"Then I’ll remind you." His voice was certain.

Not because he had to. Not because of the cameras. But because, somewhere along the way, this stopped being just an act.