Zyden Cross
Morning | The Cross Estate
The clink of porcelain echoed too sharply in the quiet dining room.
I glanced up from the black screen of my phone, only to find Evelyn already seated at the far end of the table. Her tea had gone untouched. She stared out the window like she didn't belong inside her own skin.
There was no need for me to speak.
But for some reason, I kept looking.
She wasn't dressed in the usual beige or gray her mother forced into her wardrobe. Today, she wore pale blue — high-necked, soft silk sleeves, delicate pearl buttons. Her hair was half pinned, and in the morning light, it shimmered like it belonged in another century.
She looked… composed.
Almost elegant.
Like a painting you've passed a thousand times, but never really stopped to study until one day it haunts you.
Why now?
I stirred my coffee to distract myself.
This was just the calm before a storm.
We had an event tonight. A formal charity gala hosted by the Hart family's pharmaceutical partners. Public appearances were required, cameras would be everywhere, and reporters had already begun buzzing about "the Cross bride's first debut."
I hadn't invited her.
But she would be there.
Because that's what she was now — an image the world wanted to see. Whether or not she belonged to that world.
I stood up to leave, but paused.
She still hadn't looked at me.
Still… quiet. Distant. Alone.
And something about that pierced deeper than it should've.
---
Evelyn Hart
Afternoon | Dressing Suite
The stylist fussed around me like I was a mannequin.
"Lift your chin, Lady Cross."
Lady Cross.
I hated the way it sounded. Like a borrowed title that didn't quite fit.
I obeyed, silently, as they adjusted the diamond earrings — not mine — and smoothed out the navy velvet gown I'd been instructed to wear. The neckline dipped lower than I preferred, the slit a little higher, but the dress had been picked by Zyden's mother and there was no room for preference.
"This shade suits you," the assistant murmured, brushing highlighter across my cheekbone. "Classic beauty. Quiet strength. It photographs well."
Photographs well.
That's all I was now.
An accessory in a world built on camera flashes and performance.
---
I stepped into the mirror one last time before we left.
The woman staring back looked polished, expensive, unforgettable.
But she wasn't me.
She was the lie they wanted the world to believe.
And tonight, I would wear her like armor.
---
Evening | The Charity Gala
We arrived in silence.
The Cross family's black car pulled into the red-carpeted driveway of the grand ballroom, and before the driver could open the door, flashes were already firing.
Zyden stepped out first.
I followed a moment later, heels clicking against the stone. A wave of camera shutters exploded.
"Mr. Cross! Mrs. Cross! Look this way!"
"Is this your first event as newlyweds?"
"Mrs. Cross, over the shoulder! Beautiful!"
Zyden offered his hand.
I hesitated.
But I took it.
His fingers were warm, firm, and unfamiliar.
We stood side by side as the reporters snapped a hundred versions of a lie.
He didn't smile.
Neither did I.
But when I looked up for a second — just a glance — his eyes were already on me.
Not cold.
Not indifferent.
Just… observing.
And I wasn't sure which was more dangerous.
---
Inside the ballroom, we were ushered to the front — past the gold statues, the live jazz quartet, the sea of glittering gowns and expensive laughter.
People approached Zyden immediately.
Men with sharp suits and oil-slicked hair. Women with champagne in one hand and carefully-rehearsed compliments in the other.
I stood beside him like a ghost.
Until someone turned to me.
A woman in emerald green, maybe forty, with soft kindness in her voice. "You must be Evelyn. We've heard nothing but lovely things."
That surprised me.
So did her smile. It wasn't forced.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Her eyes crinkled. "You remind me of someone I used to be."
Before I could ask what she meant, she was gone.
---
Throughout the night, Zyden barely spoke.
But he didn't ignore me either.
When I reached for a glass of water, he passed it without asking.
When I lost my footing on the staircase leading to the upper terrace, his hand steadied my back.
When the hostess introduced us — "Mr. and Mrs. Cross" — he didn't flinch.
He simply bowed his head slightly and held my arm as the applause rose.
I wanted to believe that meant something.
Even if it didn't.
---
Later, under the terrace lights, I slipped away from the crowd.
My feet ached. My smile hurt. The stars above felt too honest.
And then I heard him behind me.
"Don't run away now. You're the star tonight."
I turned.
Zyden stood by the stone railing, drink in hand, looking at me through unreadable eyes.
"I'm not running," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "You disappear well."
"You look for me well," I shot back without thinking.
He blinked.
Then—softly—he chuckled.
I froze.
It was the first time I'd heard him laugh. Not cruelly. Not bitterly.
Just… softly.
"I didn't expect that," he admitted, taking a slow sip.
"Neither did I."
Silence stretched between us. But this time, it wasn't unbearable.
He spoke again, low. "You were right the other night."
I turned to him.
He didn't look at me. Just out at the skyline.
"You didn't lie," he murmured. "Back then."
My breath caught.
"I was angry," he went on. "I was young. Proud. Easy to manipulate."
"You didn't even let me explain," I whispered.
"I didn't want to."
I nodded slowly. "And now?"
He looked at me then.
And in that moment — just a flicker — his gaze wasn't cold.
It wasn't warm, either.
But it saw me.
All of me.
Not the dress. Not the story. Just… me.
He didn't answer my question.
But he didn't need to.
---
We returned to the ballroom hand in hand.
Not for the cameras.
But because neither of us let go.
And maybe, just maybe, something had shifted.
Not enough to change the story.
But enough to change the way we stood in it.
Together.
---