Lara's POV
I had seen his parents many times before, but always from a distance, only during company events or formal gatherings where I was simply part of the staff, the quiet assistant standing behind the powerful man I worked for. Tonight was different. Tonight, I was the woman he brought home.
Even as the car turned into the long driveway leading to their mansion, my palms were damp with nervousness. I told myself to breathe, to act natural, but my heart refused to listen. I had met countless executives, board members, and clients before, but meeting Marco's parents felt heavier than any business meeting I had ever prepared for.
When the butler opened the grand doors, I was greeted by warm light and the faint scent of jasmine. His mother, a graceful woman with kind eyes, approached me first. "So, this is the young woman we've been hearing about," she said with a smile that instantly melted away some of my fear. His father was just as welcoming, his voice calm and filled with pride as he shook my hand.
Their kindness took me by surprise. They didn't treat me like an employee or an outsider. They spoke to me like I truly belonged there, as if I were already part of their family. And somehow, that made me even more nervous.
The dinner table gleamed under the chandelier, filled with dishes I barely touched. It was not an ordinary dinner. The members of the board of directors were there, as well as the top executives from the company—men and women of power who now looked at me with polite curiosity. I realized then that this was not just a family dinner. It was a gathering of the pack, as Marco once called them, though I still could not bring myself to believe such a thing existed.
"Everyone, this is Lara," Marco said confidently, his arm resting behind my chair. "The woman who makes my life easier and, lately, much more complicated."
A few chuckles filled the table, and I felt my cheeks grow hot.
What unsettled me most, however, was Marco himself. The way he kept glancing at me during dinner, the way his hand brushed mine under the table, and the way his eyes softened whenever they met mine. It was enough to make my pulse race. He was careful, always composed in public, but tonight his affection felt different. There was something deeper in his gaze, something that made it hard for me to breathe.
Then, without warning, he leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss on my lips. It was brief, but enough to make the entire room go silent for a moment.
My eyes widened as I heard the low hum of amusement around the table. His mother smiled knowingly while his father hid a chuckle behind his glass. My heart hammered wildly in my chest.
"Marco," I whispered under my breath, my voice trembling.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing against my ear, his voice low enough for only me to hear. "You should play along, Lara."
For everyone else, it probably looked like he was whispering something sweet, something romantic. I forced a smile, my face burning as his thumb traced gentle circles on my hand beneath the tablecloth.
He looked so proud, so certain, as he spoke to his parents about me—as if every word came from the heart. His tone was rich with warmth, his gaze soft whenever it found mine, and for a fleeting second, I almost believed him. But deep down, I knew better. Of course, Marco was only pretending. Everything he said, every touch, every look, was part of the agreement—an act to make this arrangement seem real. It was all about the contract, nothing more.
So I did my part. I smiled when he smiled, laughed softly at the right moments, and leaned into him when his arm brushed against mine. I looked at him the way a woman in love was supposed to look, hoping no one would notice the truth beneath my trembling hands.
But the more I tried to play my role, the harder it became to lie to myself. Because for me, it was not pretending anymore. Every time his fingers grazed my skin, I felt my pulse quicken. Every time he whispered something close to my ear, the sound of his voice seemed to settle deep inside me. I loved the way he looked at me, even if it was just for show. I loved how his presence filled every corner of the room, how his nearness made it impossible to breathe.
I told myself not to fall for him, not to give meaning to something that was only meant to look real. Yet, sitting beside him that night, surrounded by his family and the board members who watched us with knowing smiles, I realized how hopelessly drawn I was to him.
Somewhere between his act and my own performance, the line between truth and illusion began to blur. He kept holding my hand as if it belonged there, as if I belonged there. And though I knew this was all temporary, part of an arrangement that would eventually end, I could not stop myself from wanting more of him.
For the rest of the night, I tried to keep my composure, but Marco never stopped looking at me as though I was the only person in that room. His gaze followed me even when he spoke to others, his thumb brushing my hand as if to remind me that I was part of his story—at least for now.
And I knew then, no matter how much I tried to deny it, that I was already in danger. Because the man I once called my boss was slowly becoming the one person I could no longer resist, even if every tender gesture he offered was born from a lie I willingly chose to believe.
"Marco, my dear, you should take Lara to her room," his mother said cheerfully, her tone full of warmth and teasing affection. "She needs her beauty rest. Tomorrow is your wedding day, and you wouldn't want your bride looking tired or pale on her special day, would you?"
The guests burst into laughter, glasses clinking, soft music humming in the background. I smiled politely, but inside, everything felt dreamlike, too unreal to grasp. Tomorrow, I would marry Marco Blackwell, the man I had loved silently for years. Yet I knew deep in my heart that, for him, this marriage was nothing more than an obligation.
After bidding everyone goodnight, Marco placed a hand on the small of my back and guided me through the wide hallway lined with portraits and golden sconces. The house was breathtaking, almost too perfect, but I could barely appreciate any of it. My heart was pounding too hard, my thoughts spinning too fast.
When we reached the guest wing, he stopped before a large oak door and opened it for me. "You will stay here for tonight," he said, his voice calm and low. "Tomorrow, after the wedding, we leave for our honeymoon. It will be held at the Sacred Mountain, where only our kind are allowed to set foot. After that, you will move into my house."
I turned to face him, feeling both nervous and curious. "Your house?"
He nodded slightly. "Yes. You will stay there as my wife. Of course, we will have separate rooms. But when we have visitors, we cannot let them know that. You will have to stay in the master bedroom with me, at least in appearance." He said it as if it were a simple business arrangement, a matter of logistics rather than emotion.
My eyes wandered toward the room he had opened for me. The soft glow from the lamps revealed a wide bed, pale curtains, and furniture carved with exquisite detail. It looked nothing like a guest room; it felt personal, almost intimate.
Marco followed my gaze and stepped inside. He walked toward a large wardrobe and opened it, revealing several elegant dresses hanging neatly inside. My breath caught when I saw the one that stood out among them—a breathtaking bridal gown of white silk and lace.
"I had everything prepared," he said in his usual composed tone. "You will find your clothes inside the closet. Your gown is ready for tomorrow. My mother insisted you should wear something made for a Luna, not something ordinary."
I stared at the gown, unable to speak for a moment. It shimmered faintly under the light, delicate yet regal. My fingers itched to touch it, but I hesitated, afraid that doing so would make everything too real.
He turned to me again, his gaze unreadable. "You will need to rest tonight. Tomorrow will be a long day."
I wanted to ask if it would be difficult for him, pretending to share a bed with me after this marriage became official, but the words refused to leave my lips. He looked at me with the same composed authority that always made me feel small and breathless at once.
Then his tone shifted, quieter, heavier. "And during the Blood Moon," he added, his gaze darkening, "we can stay in your room or mine. It will not matter then."
His words hung in the air like a spell. I swallowed hard, my heart fluttering wildly. I knew what he meant. The Blood Moon was sacred to their kind, the night of bonding, the night of physical union that would make me conceive the heir. It would be the time when the possibility of conceiving Marco's son would become real, the night that could bind me to him in ways I was not sure I was ready for. Just the thought of it made heat rise through me, burning my cheeks and settling deep in my stomach.
I tried to keep my voice steady. "Why do we need a honeymoon at all, Marco? This wedding is just for the show. You are only doing this to fulfill an obligation. There is no point in pretending after that."
His lips curved into the faintest smirk, the kind that always left me torn between anger and desire. He stepped closer, and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. "It is tradition, Lara," he said softly. "And tradition must be honored. Whether you or I want it or not, we have to consummate the marriage."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over my face, his voice dropping lower. "And if I am being honest," he murmured, "I do not think I will find that part of the tradition difficult to follow."
My breath caught, my pulse quickened. I wanted to step back, to keep my pride intact, but my feet refused to move. His nearness, his scent, the quiet power in his voice, it all worked against my will.
He tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing close to my ear. "I can't wait to see you without this dress, Lara," he whispered, his tone rich with dangerous promise. "To hear your voice when you are no longer pretending to be calm."
Before I could respond, he straightened and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the long corridor. I stood frozen, my heart beating wildly in my chest, my knees weak beneath me.
When the door finally closed, I pressed a trembling hand to my chest and tried to steady my breathing. And I told myself that it was all part of the act, that Marco was simply playing his role to make our arrangement convincing, and he did well.
It was not just an act for me anymore. The thought of being his, even for a single night filled me with a fear and longing I could no longer deny. And as I lay down on the bed, I realized that I was no longer afraid of the Blood Moon. I was afraid of what it would awaken inside me.