Chapter 4 Chapter 4

Sandra’s POV

The words Clarissa whispered to me wouldn’t leave my head. What game? What secrets? I kept glancing at Dylan, but he didn’t seem fazed. Instead, he was casually talking to a group of men in tailored suits, laughing as if nothing in the world could shake him.

I turned back to Clarissa, trying to keep my voice steady. "What are you talking about?"

She smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. It was the kind of smile that made my stomach twist. "You’ll find out soon enough," she said, her tone light and teasing, but her eyes were sharp and cold.

"Tell me now," I demanded, my voice low.

She tilted her head, pretending to think. "Oh, sweetie, I could… but where’s the fun in that?"

Before I could reply, Dylan’s hand suddenly appeared on the small of my back. "Is there a problem here?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with a quiet warning.

Clarissa’s smile widened as she looked at him. "Of course not, Dylan. Sandra and I were just… getting to know each other."

Dylan’s jaw tightened. "I think you’ve said enough, Clarissa."

She raised her hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone." Her eyes flicked to me one last time, a silent message in them, before she walked away.

I turned to Dylan, my heart pounding. "What was that about?"

"Nothing important," he said, brushing it off.

"Nothing important?" I repeated, my voice rising. "She basically told me you’re hiding something!"

Dylan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sandra, this isn’t the place for this conversation."

"Then when?" I snapped.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against my ear. "When I can trust you."

The words stung more than I wanted to admit. "Trust me? You brought me here to play your fake wife, but I’m the one who has to earn trust?"

Dylan straightened, his eyes cold now. "You agreed to this, Sandra. Don’t forget that."

I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could, a loud voice interrupted us.

"Smith! There you are!"

A tall man with gray hair and a booming laugh approached us, holding a glass of champagne. He clapped Dylan on the shoulder like they were old friends.

"And who is this lovely lady?" the man asked, turning his sharp gaze to me.

Dylan slipped his arm around my waist again. "This is Sandra, my wife."

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Wife, huh? Didn’t think you’d ever settle down."

"Neither did I," Dylan replied smoothly, his grip on me tightening.

I forced a smile, but my mind was racing. The way Dylan was acting now—so polished, so charming—it was like he was wearing a mask.

The man laughed again. "Well, congrats to both of you. But Smith, we need to talk. There’s a… situation."

Dylan’s expression shifted, his smile fading. "What kind of situation?"

"Let’s just say your name came up in an interesting conversation," the man said, lowering his voice. "We need privacy."

Dylan nodded, then turned to me. "Sandra, stay here. I’ll be back."

"Wait—" I started, but he was already walking away with the man.

I stood there, feeling more out of place than ever. The gala was buzzing around me, but all I could think about was Clarissa’s warning and the strange tension in Dylan’s voice.

I needed answers.

Determined, I started moving through the crowd, searching for Dylan. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I followed the direction he went.

Finally, I found him in a quiet corner of the venue, talking in hushed tones with the gray-haired man.

"You can’t keep this up forever," the man was saying. "It’ll come out, and when it does, it won’t just hurt you—it’ll destroy her."

"She’s not involved," Dylan replied, his voice sharp.

"Not yet," the man said. "But how long until she is? You know what they’re capable of."

My breath caught. Who was "they"? What was going on?

Suddenly, Dylan turned his head, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Sandra," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

I froze, caught like a deer in headlights.

"Come here," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I stepped forward, my heart pounding. "What’s going on, Dylan?"

He didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the exit.

"Dylan!" I protested. "Tell me what’s happening!"

"Not here," he said, his voice tight.

We stepped outside into the cool night air, and Dylan finally stopped, turning to face me.

"You weren’t supposed to hear that," he said.

"Well, I did," I shot back. "So start talking. What are you hiding from me?"

For a moment, he just stared at me, his jaw clenched. Then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"There are people who want to destroy me, Sandra. And now that you’re with me… they’ll come for you too."

Before I could process his words, the sound of a car screeching to a halt made us both turn.

A sleek black SUV stopped in front of us, its windows tinted. The door opened, and a man in a dark suit stepped out, his expression cold and unyielding.

"Dylan Smith," the man said, his voice calm but full of menace. "We need to talk."

Dylan stepped in front of me, his posture tense. "Not here. Not now."

The man’s gaze shifted to me, and his lips curled into a chilling smile. "So this is your new wife. She’s prettier than the last one."

My blood ran cold.

Last one?

"What is he talking about, Dylan?"

I whispered, my voice shaking.

Dylan didn’t answer. His silence was all the confirmation I needed.

To be continued…