"What are you trying to hide Mrs Thorn? Let your husband see," he muttered, his presence filling the room.
"Nothing! Just... checking for dust. Let's go to dinner!" Evelyn chirped, grabbing his arm and hauling him out of the room. Michael let himself be led by her, a smirk tugging at his lips. She was terrible at lying, but her frantic energy was adorable. He'd find those certificates in five minutes, if he hadn't already known exactly where they were.
Dinner at the villa was a silent battlefield. Evelyn was glowing; she wasn't the "office Seductress" anymore, she was the Lady of Thorn International, and the feeling was intoxicating. She twirled her spaghetti, completely ignoring the "Box office Queen" sitting across from them.
Erica, maintaining her mask of the virtuous martyr, delicately placed some vegetable salad on Michael's plate. "Michael, you've been working so hard. Eat more."
She acted as if the morning's scandalous headlines didn't exist, as if she were the one who truly knew his needs. Evelyn's eyes sharpened. She didn't even look at the meat. "Honey, didn't you say you hated cabbage mixed with cream lately? I'll take that for you."
Before Michael could speak, Evelyn scooped the salad mix and moved it to her own plate, but she didn't eat it. Instead, she dropped it into a discard bowl. "I have a bit of a cleanliness obsession, you see. I can't stand food that's been handled by... outside sources."
Erica's smile faltered, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her fork. Michael didn't protest; he simply continued eating his pasta as if Evelyn's territorial display was the most natural thing in the world.
"Honey," Evelyn said, wiping her mouth and batting her eyelashes at Michael. "Let's go to the supermarket. I'm craving snacks, and the atmosphere in here is a bit... stifling."
"Change your clothes," Michael said, standing up. He was more than happy to escape the domestic tension for a walk with his "little rogue."
Upstairs, while Evelyn was pulling on a hoodie, Michael wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Wife, since I'm being such a compliant husband today, shouldn't there be a reward?"
"What kind of reward?" Evelyn asked, distracted by her phone.
Michael leaned in and whispered a few suggestive words into her ear. Evelyn's face turned scarlet instantly. Her brain went into a fog, and for the rest of the night, she was a walking disaster.
At the supermarket, she was so dazed she started putting bottles of hot sauce into the cart instead of the salt she needed.
"Are you planning to burn my tongue off?" Michael teased, swapping the sauce for salt.
"It's your fault!" she hissed, though her eyes were shining. As they moved to the fruit aisle, she began rattling off a list: "I want longan, mangoes, durian, cherries—"
"Am I raising a pig?" Michael interrupted, his eyebrows arching.
Evelyn pouted, turning away. "Fine! If I'm a pig, I won't eat anything. Let me starve."
Michael chuckled, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her right there in front of the refrigerated section. "Eat as much as you want. Get fat. There should be more 'flesh' when I hold you at night."
The surrounding shoppers watched with envy as the couple showed off their affection all over the store.
The following evening, the focus shifted to the City's Mediterranean Hotel. It was the day of the Brits Gala.
At 8:00 PM, a pair appeared at the door that made the paparazzi's flashes go haywire.
"Is that not Erica Jones? And Michael Thorn?"
"They look perfect together! Look at how he's supporting her."
Erica was draped in a knee-length slender dress that hugged her body perfectly and shimmered under the chandeliers. Because of her "injured" foot, she walked with a slight limp, clinging to Michael's arm for support. Michael was his usual appearance, a pillar of cold, arrogant perfection in his black suit.
To the outside world, they were the ultimate power couple. Erica leaned into him, her face radiant with a triumphant glow. She didn't need a marriage certificate tonight; she had the optics. Every camera lens was a witness to her "return" to the King's side.
But as they stepped into the ballroom, the whispers turned from admiration to confusion. Michael's phone, tucked in his pocket, vibrated with a new notification.
A post had just gone live on Instagram. The caption? "Just a little snack for the beauties."
As Micheal made his way to his seat, people approached to try and pitch conversations, some even being over flattery and useless. Erica leaned heavily on Michael's arm, her sweet smile masking the gleam in her eyes as she noticed the paparazzi's frantic shutters.
"I'm just glad to see you two together," A man beamed, patting Michael's hand. "When do I get to drink your wedding wine?"
Erica's giggle was like silver bells. "Oh, Mr patrich, as long as Michael is by my side, I'm happy."
Michael remained silent, his face as expressionless as usual. He was becoming impatient with their useless talks. He escorted Erica to her seat, not bothered about the gossip of the so-called 'elites.' They loved to pick apart each and everyone's business, while pretending to be 'saints' themselves. Erica spent the night basking in the attention, signing autographs and checking the news, her "Secret Hotel Date" was still the number one trending topic.
By 9:00 PM, Michael had reached his limit. After delivering the speech he was to give, he summoned Dominic and led Erica out of the banquet hall.
As they reached the car, Erica let out a soft, pained gasp. "Michael, my foot. It's throbbing." Michael looked at the swelling around her ankle and, with a sigh, swept her into his arms to place her in the car.
Back at the Springfield Villa, the air was thick with the scent of Erica's perfume. Michael carried her to her room, intending to leave immediately, but a manicured hand caught his wrist.
"Michael, stay. Just for a moment," Erica whispered, her voice trembling with manufactured grief. She limped to the door and clicked the lock, turning to face him with tears shimmering in her eyes. "Why are you so cold to me? I regret leaving. I'm so sorry."
She moved in, her arms snaking around his waist, her face buried against his chest. Michael stood rigid, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the wall. The past was a shadow he didn't want to chase, but Erica wasn't letting go.
"I know you have Evelyn now," she sobbed, "but whatever she gives you, I can give you more." She reached for the zipper of her dress, her desperation reaching a height.
"Put your clothes on," Michael commanded, his voice hard.
"Michael!" Erica wailed, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips against his in a frantic, uninvited kiss. Michael's heart tightened, not with love, but with the suffocating weight of eight years of history.
Before he could shove her away, the door was pushed open with a violent bang.
Evelyn stood in the doorway, her face full of fury. The sight of the woman draped over her husband was a needle through her heart.
Michael pushed Erica away instantly, his composure shattering. "Evelyn, it's not what it looks like."
Evelyn didn't even look at him. She marched up to Erica and, with the full force of a woman scorned, delivered a stinging slap that snapped Erica's head to the side.
"Evelyn!" Michael instinctively grabbed her arm, shocked by the violence.
"What? Does your heart ache for her?" Evelyn hissed, shaking off his grip. She looked at Erica, who was clutching her reddened cheek in disbelief. "You call yourself a Superstar? You're nothing but a home wrecker. Seducing a married man in his own home? You're cheap, Erica. Beyond cheap."
"You hit me!" Erica shrieked, her poise finally disintegrating.
"I'll do more than hit you if you touch him again," Evelyn snapped. She turned back to Michael, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. "If you love her so much, stay here. I'm done being the third party in my own marriage."
She turned and bolted for the master suite and Michael followed after her. He caught the door just before she could lock him out.
Inside the room, the silence was deafening. Evelyn sat at her dressing table, staring into Oblivion. "Our marriage has no love," she whispered. "If I'm the obstacle to your 'True Love,' then tell me. I'll leave."
Michael sighed, walking up behind her. He pulled her up and sat on the chair, drawing her down onto his lap. He buried his face in her neck, his voice muffled and weary.
"No, don't leave. Just... give me more time. You don't just erase eight years in a night."
Evelyn closed her eyes. "Do you still love her?"
The room went quiet. After a long silence, Michael spoke. "Maybe not 'love' anymore. But with you, I want to let go."
Maybe not love. The words were a cold comfort. Maybe meant, there was still a spark.
"If you realize you still love her," Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling, "please just tell me. I won't stay where I'm not wanted."