Leon
The Ivory Room lived up to its name.
Snow-white walls curved into sleek, polished columns, and the golden trim glinted under the soft chandeliers hanging like frozen raindrops. In the center, a low marble table stood surrounded by velvet armchairs, where an older man in a navy-blue kimono-style suit sipped tea from a delicate porcelain cup.
Leon approached with the grace of a man who owned the room already.
"Mr. Watanabe," he greeted with a respectful dip of his head.
The man did not stand. He studied Leon with sharp, ancient eyes. "You have aged well, Cheng. Power suits you."
Leon offered a slight smile. "And you remain as discerning as ever."
Watanabe gestured to the seat opposite him. "Sit."
Leon took the seat, his posture flawless. Silence followed—a quiet war of glances and intent. Then, Watanabe spoke again.
"I must admit," he began, stirring his tea, "I was prepared to end negotiations today."
Leon said nothing. He let the man talk.
Watanabe continued. "But then you brought her. The woman."
"My wife," Leon said, measured. "Sophia."
Watanabe raised a brow. "A surprise. One that dispels… rumors."
Leon met his eyes directly. "I do not entertain gossip. But I do eliminate doubt."
A smile tugged at the older man's lips. "You've always known how to play your pieces. I like that. And I believe, now, I can move forward."
Leon leaned back just slightly, not triumphant—controlled. "Then we understand each other."
Watanabe sipped his tea again. "We do."
Sophia
She had no idea how long she stood there after he left. Long enough for the whispers to fade. Long enough for the weight of his words to finally settle in her chest.
"You weren't just my wife. You were my answer".
A pawn, then. A beautifully dressed, well-timed answer to a billionaire's PR problem. Her lips curled slightly, not in amusement, but in cold recognition.
The ballroom now felt suffocating. Too many faces, too many assumptions, too much speculation wrapped in silk and champagne.
Sophia moved with poise through the crowd, letting her expression slip into practiced indifference. If people wanted a mystery, she'd give them one.
She stopped by one of the side tables, fingers wrapping around a flute of champagne she had no intention of drinking. Instead, she listened.
"…stunning, isn't she?"
"Cheng always was unpredictable. But married? That's a new level of power play."
"I heard she's from Europe. Old money. Or maybe she was just—"
"—a contract wife. Happens all the time."
Sophia's jaw tightened imperceptibly. She didn't care for gossip, but she'd learned to weaponize it.
She didn't need to be his answer. But now that she was, she'd use it to her own advantage.
Just as she turned toward the terrace for air, a familiar figure caught her eye—Veronica Lane, Leon's long-time executive assistant, standing near the edge of the dance floor, clutching a clipboard like a dagger. She remembered her from her first night at the penthouse. She was the lady who bashed into her room and rudely asked her to come down for dinner with Leon Cheng.
Their eyes met. Veronica's expression didn't shift. But her gaze held steel.
Sophia approached slowly.
"Enjoying the party?" Sophia asked lightly.
Veronica smiled without warmth. "I enjoy clarity. Tonight has provided some."
"Clarity can be dangerous," Sophia replied.
Veronica leaned in slightly, her voice like glass. "Just know this—Leon doesn't do permanence. When the game ends, so does the illusion."
Sophia tilted her head. "Funny. I was going to say the same to you."
With that, she turned on her heel and exited onto the terrace , letting the cool night air bite into her arms.
Beneath the glittering skyline, she finally allowed herself to breathe.
She hadn't asked for this marriage. But it was hers now. And if Leon thought she would remain in the background—a decorative solution—he didn't know her at all.
Turning her heels, she made her way to the powder room to touch up on her makeup.
She pushed the door open to the powder room—dimly lit with antique mirrors and soft gold sconces—and nearly turned back when she heard the voices.
"I mean, who is she?" one woman said, her voice high and polished. "Never seen her at any of the real events before."
"She looks so… basic," another added with a laugh. "That dress might be designer, but the way she wears it? Please."
A third one chimed in. "And did you see her face when Leon introduced her? Like a deer in headlights. Definitely not from any known family. Probably some nobody he picked up to stir the pot."
They giggled—the sound like clinking glass and cruelty in equal measure.
Sophia's stomach twisted, heat rising to her face. She took two steps forward and pushed the door open wide, startling them. All three women turned, caught mid-lipstick and laughter, their expressions morphing from shock to smug superiority.
Sophia stood her ground. "If you have something to say about me, say it to my face."
The tallest of the three raised a brow. "Oh darling, we already did."
The others chuckled. One stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly. "Look, sweetheart. This world has rules. Money, yes—but also bloodline. You can't just stumble in and expect to be one of us because you married well."
"I didn't marry 'well,'" Sophia snapped, chin lifting. "I married a man. Not a membership card."
They laughed again, shaking their heads as they gathered their clutches and sauntered toward the door.
"Cute," the last one said, pausing. "But trust me—no one's here for cute. Especially not Leon Cheng."
The door shut behind them.
Sophia stood in the silence they left behind, her chest rising and falling. Her hands clenched the edge of the marble sink as she stared into the mirror.
The woman staring back was beautiful—yes—but out of place. Not in her skin, but in this world.
But that would change.
She would never let anyone laugh at her again. Never let anyone see her as just someone's wife, a placeholder, an ornament.
No. She would become someone they would recognize. Someone they would want to photograph, gossip about—not mock, but envy.
A name on headlines. A star.
A slow breath escaped her lips. "I will become so big," she whispered to her reflection, "that I'll be worthy to stand on the same foot with my husband."
She stepped back, her shoulders squared now with resolve.
Tomorrow, she would make the call.
Enroll at L'Atelier, the most elite acting school in the country—where royals and stars trained. She would walk through those gates and never look back.
Let the world laugh now.
She'd make them eat it later.