The shore’s stream was the only thing filling the uncomfortable silence between you and Art. His pout was more pronounced than you’d ever seen, his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. He hardly tried to look your way, and the reason why couldn’t be more obvious.

Art didn’t hate you. He didn’t love you either, and he was sure you thought the same about him. What else could he expect from a marriage devoid of any affection?

Every single aspect of your union had been meticulously orchestrated. From the choice of his spouse to the way you were paraded in front of the public to seem picture perfect. The marriage was to distract from a financial crisis that went public. It was the fastest way to shift the narrative from his failing company to his new spouse, one he was “shamelessly ready to adore.” At least, that’s what the tabloids read.

Years later, you’re in the same boat, yet this time you’re the culprit. Art and you weren’t emotionally or physically involved. Spending the night in someone else’s sheets wasn’t abnormal. But, you were sloppy one night after one too many drinks and missed the several picture being taken of you and someone who was most certainly not Art.

Word spread quickly, and his PR team worked just as fast. They quickly combatted the rumors of Art’s marriage being detrimental and the public questioning his morals with the two of you plastered across the papers as a couple hopelessly in love.

You could hear the cameras shuttering every couple minutes as you attempted small talk. Art offered nothing but dry comments and an occasional hum. He spent most of the night picking at his food or staring out over the beach. The only full sentence you managed to drag from him came after your repeated attempts to get him to engage.

When you placed your hand over his, he finally snapped.

“We’re doing this for them. Not us. You know that.” His sharp eyes cut into you before he turned back to the lake.