Arielle couldn't sleep that night.
She lay motionless in the massive bed that felt too soft, too still like it had been made for someone who didn't toss with thoughts. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and something more expensive,more of sterile comfort wrapped in silk. But unfortunately, none of it helped. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, where shadows moved like they had secrets of their own, dancing in rhythm with the city lights outside.
Leon had barely brushed her earlier,but her skin still tingled right where his fingers had touched her cheek. As fleeting a moment it was,it lingered like a whisper she couldn't unhear.
It shouldn't have meant anything. It wasn't in the script.
There was no clause for that in the contract. And yet, it meant everything because it hadn't been part of the act.
Leon hadn't needed to touch her. There'd been no audience,no photographers lurking behind velvet ropes,no investors or influencers to impress,absolutely no one to pretend to. Just the two of them, alone, with nothing between them but tension and silence and he had reached for her anyway.
She tried to rationalize it, dragging logic over the moment like a net. Maybe it was just a stress response or maybe he was just playing the role too well. Maybe she was.
But the truth was quieter, sharper.
The moment kept looping in her mind.
The way his gaze had softened for just a second. Like he saw something fragile in her and didn't flinch away from it. Like he didn't pity her,didn't leer or dismiss. He just saw her.
And that terrified her because she wasn't used to being seen,at least,not beyond the surface. All people saw most times was her well-carved hourglass body,her confidence,her poise,her restraint,her status as Jason's girlfriend.
People only saw the polished,perfected version of herself she'd worked so hard to become.
But Leon?
He looked past and saw through it. Like he was peeling her back layer by layer and cataloging the ache she didn't talk about.
And it made her feel... exposed.
Naked in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.
She turned onto her side, pressing her hand to her cheek as if she could erase the memory of his touch. But her fingertips only reminded her of his. Her skin remembered, even if her mind tried to forget.
She hated that.
She hated how it made her feel raw, open, vulnerable.
But even more—
She hated how a part of her wanted him to do it again so bad.
She needed just one more touch. One more glance.
One more moment where she wasn't performing or pretending. Where she could just be, and someone still chose to look closer.
And the worst part?
She didn't know if that craving was foolish…
or dangerous.
The next morning, the world noticed her.
Not just as Leon Mikhailov's fiancée but as someone powerful. Every headline sang a version of the same tune:
The Ice King's Surprise Queen Arielle Vaughn: From Heartbreak to Heiress? Meet the Mysterious Woman Who Tamed Mikhailov
She scrolled through articles while sitting at the marble breakfast bar, croissant in one hand, tablet in the other. Leon was nowhere to be seen, but his presence was felt in the quiet efficiency of the staff, in the black coffee that appeared at her side exactly how she liked it, even though she never told anyone.
Her phone buzzed nonstop, even though she hadn't given anyone her new number. Old friends, nosy influencers, even a few exes with "just checking in" messages. She ignored them all.
Except one.
Tasha.
Her best friend, the one who'd stood next to her while she sobbed in the bathroom stall at that charity gala just before she ran into Leon.
TASHA: Girl. If this is real, blink twice and send me a selfie with today's newspaper.
TASHA: Also, I'm slightly mad you didn't tell me first. Scared but mostly proud
Arielle stared at the screen as her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to tell her everything. But she couldn't....it just wasn't time yet.
So she replied with the first real lie of this fake relationship:
ARIELLE: It's complicated, but real. I'll call you soon.
She hit send, heart sinking.
Lying to Tasha felt worse than lying to the world.
Later that day, Arielle walked into Leon's home office for the first time since the "rule-breaking" moment in the elevator.
He didn't mention it.
Didn't even look at her like it happened.
He was typing something on a sleek black laptop, papers strewn across the desk in a precise mess that somehow still looked intentional. A glass of something amber sat untouched beside a silver pen that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
"Sit," he said, not glancing up.
She sat.
He slid a file toward her without ceremony. "You're meeting Viktor today."
She frowned. "Who's Viktor?"
"My second-in-command. He doesn't trust anyone."
"Well, he sounds charming."
Leon finally looked up, a small flicker of something like amusement in his eyes. "He's ex-military. Keeps our security tight. He'll be... assessing you."
"What am I, a threat?"
"To the truth? Maybe."
Before she could respond, the door opened.
And in stepped a man who looked like a bullet in human form. He was tall, sharp-jawed, with dark eyes that scanned her like a biometric scanner. Everything about him screamed precision—from his tailored black shirt to the earpiece tucked discreetly into one ear.
"This is her?" Viktor asked.
"Her name is Arielle," Leon said calmly.
Arielle stood and extended her hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
Viktor didn't shake it.
"She's too polished," he said. "Too convenient. Where's the vetting?"
Leon gave him a cool look. "She's not a threat."
"Yet."
Arielle smiled sweetly. "I like him."
Leon raised an eyebrow. "Don't encourage him."
Viktor narrowed his eyes. "Do you know what you've gotten into?"
Arielle didn't flinch. "No. But I know what I'm getting out of."
Viktor studied her a moment longer. Then nodded—once, short and sharp. "If she stays, I'm watching her."
"Good," Leon said. "Then we're all clear."
----
That evening, the city burned gold and crimson beneath a bruised sky, like fire flickering under a storm cloud. Clouds gathered in the distance, threatening rain, but Manhattan glittered defiantly below—as if the city refused to dim, even in the face of a downpour.
Their destination loomed ahead: a black-tie fundraising gala hosted by the prestigious Mikhailov Foundation. One of his events. One where eyes wouldn't just watch—they'd study.
Arielle wore emerald green.
Not her choice, but one curated by Leon's ever-efficient assistant, who claimed the color brought out her eyes and exuded "power with warmth." It hugged her body like it was tailored to remember every curve, every breath. The silk was cool against her skin, but she felt flushed anyway.
Leon wore black.
Of course he did.
A sharp tuxedo with clean lines, all gave off understated elegance that didn't try to impress—it dared you to underestimate him.
As they pulled up to the venue, the car was immediately swarmed. Flashbulbs exploded like lightning, catching on sequins and cufflinks. Voices rose around them—reporters, photographers, distant admirers with phones held high. Arielle stepped out first, and the chaos hit her in a wave of heat and noise.
She lifted her chin and fixed a smile which wasn't entirely fake. It was armor—polished, practiced, and worn like a queen's crown.
Ari actually looked stunning and she wore the aura like she had lived the lifestyle and game all her life. Leon was at her side in seconds. His hand found her waist, grabbed it as if it belonged there. The scene was absolutely picture perfect.
"They look so good together"..." Who's the lady???"... "Oh My God!!! Is that Mikhailov with a lady?". Murmurs and whispers rose from every angle.
Listening to all the side comments, Leon bent slightly, lips brushing just close enough to her ear to send a shiver down her spine.
"Ready to lie to the world?" he murmured.
His voice was low, smooth, and far too intimate for a crowded sidewalk. But that was the game, wasn't it?
She turned her head slowly, smiling wider,maybe a little too wide. The kind of smile that made people believe you had nothing to hide.
"I already did."
It slipped out before she could stop it.
His eyes flickered barely a beat, a blink too long. Something behind them shifted. There were unspoken thoughts, unanswered questions but he didn't ask. He didn't push neither did he pry further and somehow, that scared her more than if he had.
Because the reaction itself wasn't indifference. It was restraint. He was giving her space… and she didn't know what to do with it.
Was she lying to keep the plan intact?
Or was she lying to keep herself from admitting how real it was beginning to feel—how easily the fiction bled into fact when his hand was on her waist and the world believed them?
She didn't know anymore.
And maybe… she didn't want to.