The headlines were mercilessly beautiful.
The Vegas: Singapore's Power Couple.
A Marriage Built on Strength and Success.
Love and Legacy: Inside the Empire of Adrian and Elena Vega.
The glossy magazines ate it up. So did the public. Every photo of them, hand in hand at charity events, smiling under the city lights, sold the fantasy perfectly.
They looked happy.
They looked real.
And it was killing her.
Elena watched herself on the TV screen in the penthouse living room, her own face smiling, waving, flawless. She barely recognized the woman she'd become.
"Mrs. Vega," the reporter cooed from the broadcast, "is redefining grace."
Grace.
That was the word people used when they couldn't see the cracks.
She muted the sound.
Outside, the skyline burned gold in the setting sun. The glass walls of Vega Tower reflected the world's illusion, one she was trapped inside.
In public, Adrian was the perfect husband. He opened doors, offered his arm, leaned close for the cameras. He'd mastered the art of affection without intimacy.
In private, they spoke like diplomats. Civil. Controlled. Distant.
Yet lately… something was shifting.
It began in small ways.
A cup of coffee left outside her study, the way she liked it, strong, black, no sugar.
A raincoat silently draped over her shoulders before she stepped into a storm.
A glance that lingered too long before he turned away.
He was still cold, still careful, but his cruelty had softened into something she didn't recognize.
Elena told herself not to read into it. Not to hope.
But hope, she'd learned, was a dangerous instinct. It lived even when love was dead.
Tonight, they were attending yet another charity gala, the third that month.
She stood before the mirror, fastening a diamond earring, when Adrian's reflection appeared behind her. His tuxedo was sharp, his expression sharper.
"You're ready," he said.
"Do I have a choice?"
His lips curved, faintly. "You wanted this arrangement."
"No," she said quietly, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "You wanted control."
He said nothing. But his eyes betrayed the flicker of something like guilt.
When they reached the ballroom, the flash of cameras blinded her. Adrian's hand slid to the small of her back, possessive, practiced.
"Smile for them," he murmured.
She did. Because that was her role: the devoted wife.
As the crowd whispered perfect couple, she felt like porcelain, polished on the outside, hollow within.
Later that night, after hours of laughter that wasn't real, Elena slipped away to the balcony for air. The city below glittered like spilled stars.
Her head throbbed from champagne and pretense.
Inside, she could see Adrian surrounded by investors, his charisma magnetic. He looked like the man she'd fallen for years ago, except colder, more dangerous.
And yet, something about the way his eyes searched for her through the crowd made her heart stutter.
He found her finally, his expression unreadable.
She turned away before he could come closer.
Back at the penthouse, silence returned like a familiar ghost.
Elena peeled off her heels and dropped onto the couch. Her feet ached, her heart worse.
Adrian loosened his tie, crossing the room toward the bar. "You handled the press well," he said.
"I've learned from the best."
He poured himself a drink. "That sounded like an insult."
"Take it however you like."
He raised a brow. "Still fiery, Mrs. Vega. I thought the cameras had burned that out of you."
"Maybe they have," she whispered.
He studied her, his gaze lingering too long. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
But she wasn't. The exhaustion wasn't physical, it was the fatigue of living a lie that felt too close to truth.
When he finally disappeared into his study, she exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Sometime past midnight, Elena wandered into the office to look for her phone.
Adrian's desk was immaculate, every file aligned, every pen precisely placed. The computer screen was still on.
She reached for her phone, but then she saw the open document, a hospital invoice.
Her name wasn't on it. Her mother's was.
St. Catherine's Medical Centre. Full payment processed.
Her breath caught. The amount was enormous. Too enormous.
Scrolling down, she saw the transfer receipt, Vega Holdings Private Account. Authorized by: Adrian Vega.
Elena froze, her pulse echoing in her ears.
He'd paid for it. Quietly. Without telling her.
Her chest tightened. She tried to rationalize it, maybe it was obligation, maybe guilt, but nothing dulled the ache blooming inside her.
He'd said he hated her.
He'd made her believe it.
But this… this was not hate.
She didn't hear him until his reflection appeared in the glass wall beside her.
"What are you doing in here?"
Elena turned sharply, fingers trembling. "I was looking for my phone."
His gaze flicked to the monitor, then back to her. The air thickened.
"You saw."
"I…" She swallowed. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It wasn't necessary."
"Not necessary?" Her voice cracked. "You've been paying for my mother's treatments for months?"
Adrian's jaw tightened. "You needed help."
"I didn't ask for your charity."
"This isn't charity."
"Then what is it?" she demanded.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, a rare, human gesture. "It's what I can do. For what I took."
The words were quiet, almost lost.
Elena stared at him. "You think money fixes what you broke?"
"No," he said simply. "But it's a start."
The sincerity in his tone made her chest ache.
Silence fell, sharp, dangerous.
He took a step closer. "You shouldn't have gone through my files."
"And you shouldn't hide behind control," she shot back. "It's exhausting, isn't it? Pretending to be untouchable?"
His gaze locked onto hers, a slow storm gathering in his eyes. "And what are you pretending to be, Elena? The perfect wife? The woman who doesn't still feel everything she shouldn't?"
Her breath hitched. "You don't know what I feel."
"Don't I?"
He was too close now, his voice low, his presence overwhelming.
For a heartbeat, the air between them pulsed with all the things left unsaid.
Then she stepped back, breaking the moment. "You can't keep doing this, helping me, hurting me, confusing me."
His expression hardened again, the crack sealing shut. "Goodnight, Mrs. Vega."
He brushed past her, leaving her standing in the dim glow of the monitor, her reflection trembling in the glass.
That night, Elena couldn't sleep.
She lay awake, listening to the rain whisper against the windows. Her mind replayed his words, his tone, the quiet guilt beneath them.
She'd wanted to believe he was unfeeling, that hating him was easier than remembering who he'd once been.
But he was changing. Slowly. Subtly. And that terrified her more than his cruelty ever had.
Because if Adrian Vega still had a heart… then hers was in danger of remembering how to break.
The next morning, she found an envelope on her nightstand. No note, no explanation, just a single folded document inside.
It was a private medical report from her mother's doctor, and scrawled at the bottom, in Adrian's handwriting:
She's getting better. Don't thank me.
Elena pressed a trembling hand over her heart.
Pretending was supposed to protect them both.
But pretending, she realized, hurt worse than the truth ever could.