I examined the new arrivals standing only a few paces away, measuring them the way a painter might evaluate potential models. Both were undeniably good-looking. Even that celebrated prodigy Carlo Ville possessed the kind of polished handsomeness reserved for luxury-watch advertisements.
Still, when I turned my head and studied Zion's profile—the hawkish bridge of his nose, the sculpted jaw softened slightly by warm chandelier light—I realized my so-called husband was, to my admittedly biased eyes, superior. Zion Cartridge might behave like a glacier disguised as a man, yet aesthetically he outshone the Ville cousins without even trying.
"My escort's better-looking than either of you," I muttered under my breath in rapid Taglish, more for my own amusement than anyone else's.
Zion gave a brief cough—half laugh, half warning—and I flicked my gaze up. Those pitch-black eyes were fixed on me, brows drawn into a subtle question.
"What?" I whispered defensively.
He shook his head once, dismissing my comment, then redirected his attention to the pair in front of us.
Carlo spoke first. "I didn't expect you to marry so soon, Mr. Cartridge," he said, words polite yet edged with something sharp—curiosity, maybe rivalry.
I rolled my eyes, confident he couldn't see the gesture. Beside Carlo, an unfamiliar young woman clung to his arm, her smile sugary enough to rot enamel. Jake Ville, Carlo's brash cousin, hovered like an impatient puppy.
"Pssh! This man is married?" Jake scoffed, apparently scandalized. "I've never even heard of a Zion Cartridge." He sounded as though the notion itself offended the natural order.
My fist twitched. Part of me wanted to start swinging; another part wanted to laugh at his ignorance.
Carlo leaned sideways and murmured, just loud enough for Zion—and unfortunately me—to overhear, "He's prominent in global finance, Jake. Don't cause a scene."
But Carlo wasn't finished needling. "Seriously, Mr. Cartridge, marriage already? The two of you look… young." The pause before young suggested another unspoken adjective—ill-matched or maybe suspicious.
Zion's palm tightened against the small of my back, grounding me yet simultaneously making my pulse misbehave. "I fail to see how that's your concern, Mr. Ville," he replied coolly. Then, softer but still lethal: "Is it?"
Carlo's companion—pretty, doe-eyed—stared at me with open curiosity. I met her gaze, refusing to flinch. If she truly was Lily, the female lead from the unread chapters of My Lily, then either the plot had diverged or we were still in prologue territory.
"I'm sorry if my boyfriend and I offended you, Mr. and Mrs. Cartridge," the woman said, voice coated in honey yet containing a subtle barb. Instinctively I tightened my grip on Zion's sleeve.
Neither of us responded, and a faint flush colored her cheeks. Carlo cleared his throat. "Forgive my lapse. Allow me to introduce my partner properly."
I waited, heart beating at double tempo.
"Lily Sanchez, Mr. and Mrs. Cartridge," she said, dipping her head with practiced grace.
So this was the story's heroine—surname now confirmed. Close up, Lily was almost breathtaking: glossy chestnut hair curled over one shoulder, makeup luminous but understated, a lavender gown that whispered money. She exuded collegiate freshness despite the evening formality.
Jake butted in. "Carlo, do you know these two?" His tone implied we might be exotic animals on display.
Carlo hesitated, eyes locking onto mine. "I… do know Mr. Cartridge," he answered—truthful yet evasive. Zion responded by drawing me fractionally closer, a territorial gesture I hadn't anticipated.
"Don't mind my cousin," Carlo continued smoothly, addressing Zion now. "He's new to the corporate circuit—too much enthusiasm, too little discretion. I hope he hasn't inconvenienced you."
From the corner of my eye I sensed other guests turning to watch, scenting potential drama. Many were high-profile investors; a single poorly chosen word could ignite a public-relations wildfire. I dug my nails lightly into Zion's arm, silently begging him not to unleash his legendary razor tongue.
Zion merely grunted, a perfectly ambiguous Yeah, before setting his wine glass on a nearby cocktail table. I released his sleeve, yet his opposite arm remained anchored around my waist, claiming but also shielding.
A booming voice approached. "Ah, I see you've already met the illustrious Zion Cartridge!" declared an older gentleman—the chairman and CEO of Vilacorp, our host for the night. He beamed at Carlo like a proud uncle before turning that smile on us.
"Yes, Chairman," Carlo answered with false warmth. "A surprising delight to converse with Mr. Cartridge here."
The chairman chuckled. "This man is notoriously hard to entice. I sent my invitation a full month ago; when no reply came I assumed he would decline."
I blinked. A month? Our household received the envelope only this morning. Something smelled off.
"I couldn't possibly respond earlier," Zion said flatly. "We received your letter today, Mr. Vilacorp."
My lungs almost squealed with suppressed laughter. Carlo's smile wavered; Lily's breath audibly caught.
"I-Is that so?" The chairman's joviality faltered, embarrassment creeping into his tone.
Around us, hushed commentary flared.
"So that's why Mr. Cartridge skipped the red carpet!"
"I heard he brought his wife—that must be her."
"What does he mean the invitation just arrived? Who interfered?"
Mr. Vilacorp paled, shifting his weight. "Unforgivable carelessness," he said, trying to recover dignity. "I will discipline whichever staff mishandled the delivery."
Zion's exhale brushed my ear, surprisingly warm, sending a shiver skittering across my scalp. My cheeks heated; I prayed no one noticed.
"I'll assist with that audit," Zion offered, tone iced champagne. Carlo and Lily stiffened visibly. For protagonists supposedly fearless, they looked rattled.
A revelation struck: in the serialized chapters I'd read, Carlo and Lily were depicted as moral paragons—undaunted, righteous, beloved by all. Yet here, faced with a single sentence from Zion, they appeared anything but invincible. Perhaps the online author had embellished their courage, or perhaps their true mettle revealed itself only later.
Lingering questions still circled: How did I land in this altered narrative? Why was Carlo tied to my mysterious accident and subsequent amnesia? His eyes held recognition, but he was keeping silent—maybe waiting for privacy, maybe plotting.
I restrained my instinct to demand explanations. For now observation was safer. The chessboard had only just been set: Zion beside me, Carlo and Lily opposite, the chairman hovering like a startled referee, whispers buzzing throughout the ballroom. Whatever game was beginning, I intended to learn the rules before making my decisive move.