Sarah and Mark arrived at the grand entrance of the Mayor's estate, the iron gates slowly swinging open to reveal a courtyard filled with polished black cars and uniformed valets. Sarah, still seated in the passenger seat, had her phone pressed to her ear, her brows slightly furrowed.
"Hey, Sarah, why aren't you here yet?" Ursula's voice came through the speaker, sharp with concern. "Did you change your mind? Are you backing out because of the rumor? You know people are already talking—"
"Girl, stop being anxious. I'm literally at the gate," Sarah interrupted with a calm edge in her voice. Her eyes locked onto the elegant mansion ahead, its towering columns glowing under the warm lights. "And let them talk. I don't care. These people? They're just clowns waiting for the curtain to rise on someone else's tragedy."
"Still, be careful," Ursula said, her voice lowering. "There are people here who are just waiting for you to slip. Waiting to bury you with their fake smiles."
"Oh, poor them," Sarah replied, her tone laced with mock sympathy. "They're going to be so disappointed tonight. Anyway, I'm hanging up, girl."
She ended the call and placed her phone in her clutch without hesitation. Mark was quiet beside her, watching the line of cars move slowly up the drive. When their turn came, the driver stopped at the front.
They were nearly at the entrance when Mark broke the silence.
"Is there something you're not telling me?"
His voice wasn't accusatory—just quiet, direct.
Sarah turned to him, momentarily startled. "Aahm… yes, there is," she admitted, hesitant. "But it's not that I didn't want you to know. I just didn't want to drag you into all this high-society drama."
"Why not?" Mark asked, turning fully toward her now. "Aren't I your husband? When I agreed to marry you, I already knew what came with the package. This isn't news to me."
His words landed heavily. Husband.
It was the first time he'd used the word since they married. Until now, they had only referred to each other by name, never acknowledging what their bond truly was, even if it was born out of convenience. Contractual. Cold. Nothing romantic.
But hearing husband from his lips shifted something in her chest.
She stared at him, her heart thudding louder than she wanted to admit. For a moment, she couldn't speak—just looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time.
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Hey," he said softly. "Back to Earth."
Sarah blinked, pulled out of her daze. "Sorry… I just didn't think you'd want to hear something so… ridiculous."
"It's not too late to tell me now," he said gently.
She inhaled deeply, hesitant. Then she looked down, brushing invisible dust off her dress, gathering courage.
"Well… people are saying I—Sarah Whitmore—had a one-night stand with a beggar, and the next morning, I decided to marry him… because he was so good in bed."
She said it all in one breath, then immediately covered her face with both hands, mortified.
Silence filled the car for a beat.
Then Mark laughed.
Not just a small laugh—a full, unrestrained laugh that shook his shoulders. The kind of laugh that caught him off guard too.
Sarah peeked between her fingers, glaring at him. "Mark! Why are you laughing?" she said, completely red in the face.
Mark was still trying to catch his breath. "I mean…" he wiped at his eyes. "I didn't know I was that good in bed. That's got to be the most flattering rumor I've ever heard."
"It's not funny," Sarah muttered, even though the corner of her mouth betrayed a reluctant smile.
Mark leaned back in his seat, the laughter still simmering in his throat. "Come on. Think about it. In one night, I was apparently so impressive you couldn't help but throw your entire life into chaos for me. That's almost poetic."
Sarah rolled her eyes and reached for the door handle. "Were you planning to laugh until you die?"
Mark stepped out as well. "I've never heard of anyone dying from laughter. But if I do, it'll be with pride."
As they walked side by side toward the ballroom, Sarah muttered, "I don't know whether to be annoyed or embarrassed."
"Why not both?" Mark teased.
She gave him a playful shove. "You're impossible."
"Impossible but apparently unforgettable," he quipped, straightening his collar.
She bit back a laugh. The grand marble steps of the Mayor's house lay ahead, lit by ornate chandeliers inside. She could already feel the heat of a hundred eyes watching from the ballroom windows.
"Alright," Mark said, adjusting his cuffs. "Let's go inside. I need a glass of water to clear my throat from all that laughing."
"And maybe a cold shower," Sarah said under her breath.
They shared a brief glance—a moment of levity between the tension. Whatever the night held, they would walk into it together.
---
What everyone expected… didn't happen at all.
Whispers had filled the Mayor's mansion long before Sarah's arrival. Some were certain she'd be too embarrassed to show her face. Others speculated she'd appear—yes—but with her head low, shoulders hunched, crushed beneath the weight of shame.
But the moment Sarah Whitmore walked into the ballroom, every rumor died a silent death.
She entered laughing. Not nervously. Not awkwardly. But the kind of carefree laugh that turns heads and unsettles the proud. Mark walked beside her, calm and composed, his presence magnetic, the two of them locked in a private exchange that seemed to belong in a different world entirely.
"I never knew you were this funny," Sarah said, tilting her head toward him, her laughter light and genuine.
"That's because you never asked," Mark replied with a smirk.
"Who goes around asking people if they're funny?" she teased.
"You were supposed to be the first," he said, feigning offense.
"Go to hell," Sarah replied with a laugh, nudging his shoulder.
They were so caught up in each other that they didn't even realize the entire ballroom had fallen silent. Every eye, every conversation, every breath had paused, watching them.
They looked… happy. Effortlessly so. Like two teenagers sharing inside jokes, basking in the glow of their first love. And it made those who had come to watch her fall feel an uncomfortable sting of disappointment.
The first to break from the frozen crowd was Ursula.
Tall and elegant, Ursula's commanding height and poise made her hard to miss. Her raven-black hair was swept into a glossy high ponytail, cascading down her back in soft waves. She wore a silver one-shoulder gown that hugged her curves with understated grace. Her steps were confident as she made her way toward Sarah.
"Sarah," she said smoothly, her eyes flicking between the couple. "Who's this handsome man beside you?"
It was only then that Sarah snapped back to her surroundings, realizing they had already made it into the heart of the ballroom.
"Oh!" she said with a soft laugh. "He's Mark. My husband."
The moment the word husband left Sarah's lips, a visible jolt rippled through the crowd. Mouths parted in disbelief. Eyes widened. Fans paused mid-wave. Glasses nearly slipped from trembling fingers.
Rumors had flown wild. Everyone had heard them—how Sarah Whitmore, the heiress, had slept with a beggar, and out of reckless impulse, married him the very next day. A foolish act driven by scandal and desperation.
But the man standing beside her now?
This couldn't possibly be him.
Mark was tall—easily towering over most of the men in the room. His chiseled jaw, deep-set eyes, and quiet confidence commanded attention. Muscular and lean, he carried himself like someone who didn't care to impress, yet did so effortlessly. He wore a gray suit with subtle sheen that hugged his frame like second skin, the crisp collar of his shirt open just enough to hint at the strength beneath.
If this man was a beggar… then who were they?
He was, without a doubt, the most striking man in the ballroom.
The women who had come tonight expecting to see Sarah crumble were the first to feel the sting. One by one, their expressions shifted—from scorn, to shock, to envy. Every sarcastic thought they'd prepared dissolved. Their gazes locked onto Mark like magnets, forgetting all else.
Suddenly, they weren't mocking Sarah anymore. They were envying her.
Why wasn't that man their husband?
Why did Sarah get to be the one standing next to him, laughing like it was the most natural thing in the world?
They hated how beautiful she looked next to him. They hated how he didn't look the least bit uncomfortable. Most of all—they hated how they couldn't look away.
As for the men?
They had anticipated someone forgettable. Someone broken and rough around the edges. An unshaven, weak-kneed man clinging to Sarah's fame like a lifeline. They thought Sarah had married him out of pity—or lust. A fling she would grow tired of. A mistake she would soon discard.
But now… seeing Mark up close? Dressed like a king, standing with poise, eyes sharp and unbothered?
They were rattled. They couldn't help but compare themselves to him—and lose. Miserably.
How could they ever compete with that?
The energy in the room shifted sharply. Whispers started again—but they were no longer about mockery. The entire ballroom buzzed with disbelief, confusion, jealousy, and fascination.
The laughing stock had become the center of gravity. The room tilted around them.
And Sarah, still talking and laughing beside her husband, seemed completely unfazed.
The chaos wasn't loud. It was silent and simmering—an unspoken storm that swept through the room like wildfire.
Sarah Whitmore had walked into a room of wolves and made them all feel like sheep.
---