Enigmatic Veil of Lies

The silk hem of the gown fluttered lightly as Amara stepped out of the dressing room, the soft lights of the boutique casting a warm glow over her figure. Lorenzo, seated casually on one of the velvet chairs, froze mid-scroll on his phone.

He looked up—and really looked.

For a moment, he forgot the staged reasons behind it all. The deal. The pressure. The family name. All of that blurred behind the simple reality that stood before him: Amara, wearing a wedding gown, her posture poised, chin lifted, a quiet grace radiating from her like morning light through stained

glass.

She wasn't wearing much makeup—just enough to soften her already fine features. Her hair was pulled back with a few loose strands framing her face. It wasn't dramatic, or glamorous, or fashion-magazine bold.

It was her.

And for the first time since they agreed to this whole plan, Lorenzo thought—Damn, she's actually… pretty.

Not in the usual way that made heads turn at events. Not the way he was used to—the red lips, the daring eyes, the flirtation dancing just beneath the surface. No. Amara had always been simple. Too formal. Noble, even. Always dressed like she was meeting with diplomats or hosting an intellectual

gathering. Reserved. Polished. Controlled.

And yet, there was something magnetic about her now. Something he hadn't bothered noticing in the past month of shared schedules and tastings, fittings

and family meetings.

In that time, they had grown used to each other. She'd learned how he liked his espresso—extra strong, no sugar. He'd memorized the way she always reached

for her pen when she was nervous, even if she wasn't writing anything down. They'd fought over flower arrangements, disagreed over music, but somehow ended the day always able to laugh over a glass of wine or a shared silence that didn't feel heavy.

They weren't in love. Not really. But there was something forming. Some quiet, tentative rhythm.

He studied her again, eyes narrowing in curiosity.

"She's not my type," he had once told Violet with a shrug. "Too...composed."

But now?

Now, he wasn't so sure. Maybe he just hadn't looked closely enough.

She turned toward him, catching him staring. "Well?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Do I look ridiculous or... wife-like enough for your standards?"

Lorenzo smirked, standing and walking over, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He circled her slowly, taking in the clean lines of the dress, the subtle curve of her smile. "You look..." he paused, tilting his

head, "...like trouble."

Amara rolled her eyes. "You already said that last time."

"Because it's still true," he said with a grin. But then he added, softer, "You really do look beautiful, Amara."

Her eyes flicked to his, uncertain whether he meant it as part of the game or something a little closer to truth.

He offered no further explanation. Instead, he stepped back, nodding once. "I'm glad I said yes to this."

"To the dress?" she teased.

"To the marriage," he replied, more serious this time. "You're… something else."

It wasn't exactly a confession. But it was enough to leave a pause between them.

She turned back to the mirror, smoothing her hands over the bodice. "I'm not what you're used to."

"Exactly," he said. "And that's not a bad thing."

In the quiet that followed, neither of them reached for their roles. No performances, no pretending. Just two people, standing on the edge of something neither of them fully understood.

But one thing was certain: the longer this arrangement went on, the more the lines between convenience and curiosity began to blur.

And Lorenzo… he found himself wanting to look a little longer.