Chapter 3 Chapter 3

Sandra’s POV

The car sped through the city streets, the hum of the engine filling the silence between us. Dylan’s words echoed in my mind. The richest man in New York City. I turned to look at him, his face calm yet unreadable, his hands gripping the steering wheel with confidence.

"So, what exactly happens at this gala?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Dylan glanced at me, a small smirk playing on his lips. "It’s where the wolves gather," he said cryptically.

I frowned. "Wolves?"

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not real ones. Just a room full of wealthy men and women, all fighting for power. It’s a battlefield in designer suits."

"And you need me there… why?" I asked, unsure where I fit into this picture.

He paused for a moment, his smirk fading. "Because appearances matter, Sandra. A man like me… people watch my every move. A wife—someone standing by my side—makes me untouchable. It shows I’m grounded, trustworthy. But most importantly, it keeps certain vultures at bay."

I raised an eyebrow. "Vultures?"

"You’ll see," he said, his voice low, almost teasing.

I didn’t like the sound of that, but curiosity burned inside me. The idea of stepping into Dylan’s world, even temporarily, was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

We pulled up to his penthouse, the building towering above the city like a monument of power. Dylan stepped out first, walking around to open my door. His hand extended toward me.

"Ready to become Mrs. Dylan Smith for the night?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

I hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand. This was crazy. Absolutely insane. But then I thought about Lewis, about Rachel’s smug face, about every time I had felt powerless. This was my chance to rewrite my story—even if just for one night.

I placed my hand in his, and he helped me out of the car.

Inside, the penthouse was everything I expected—sleek, modern, and breathtakingly luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning view of the city skyline.

"Follow me," Dylan said, leading me to a room at the far end of the hall.

He pushed the door open, revealing a walk-in closet filled with designer dresses, sparkling jewelry, and shoes that probably cost more than my rent.

"Pick one," he said casually, as if this was completely normal.

I blinked, overwhelmed. "All of this is for me?"

"Tonight, you’re my wife," he said, leaning against the doorway. "You have to look the part."

I stepped inside, running my fingers over the soft fabrics and glittering accessories. It felt surreal, like stepping into a dream—or someone else’s life.

Finally, I chose a floor-length black dress with a deep neckline and delicate lace sleeves. It was bold, elegant, and unlike anything I’d ever worn before. When I stepped out, Dylan’s eyes swept over me, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his expression.

"You clean up well," he said, his tone light but his gaze lingering.

"Thanks," I replied, trying not to blush.

An hour later, we arrived at the gala. The venue was breathtaking—gold chandeliers, marble floors, and an air of wealth so thick it was suffocating.

Dylan placed a hand on the small of my back as we entered, guiding me through the crowd. Heads turned as people noticed us, whispers following in our wake.

"Smile," he whispered in my ear. "They’re watching."

I forced a smile, trying to appear as confident as Dylan. But inside, my heart raced. I felt out of place, like a fraud in a world I didn’t belong to.

Dylan introduced me to several people, each more intimidating than the last. Billionaires, CEOs, socialites—they all seemed to hang on his every word. And then, as we moved toward the bar, a woman approached us.

She was stunning—tall, with sleek blonde hair and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze flickered to me briefly before settling on Dylan.

"Dylan," she purred, her voice smooth as silk. "I didn’t know you’d bring a date."

Dylan’s grip on my waist tightened slightly. "This is Sandra, my wife," he said, his voice firm.

The woman’s smile faltered for a split second before she recovered. "How lovely," she said, her tone dripping with insincerity. "I’m Clarissa. Dylan and I go way back."

I smiled politely, but my stomach churned. There was something about her, something unsettling.

As the night went on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Clarissa was watching me, her eyes filled with silent judgment.

And then, just as I thought I could relax, I overheard her talking to another guest near the bar.

"Did you hear?" Clarissa whispered, her voice low but clear enough for me to catch. "Sandra isn’t his real wife. It’s all a lie."

My breath hitched.

What?

I turned to find Dylan, but he was deep in conversation with a group of men. My heart raced as I tried to process what I had just heard.

What did she mean?

Before I could move, Clarissa appeared beside me, her smile sharp and predatory.

"Enjoying the party?" she asked sweetly, her eyes gleaming with something sinister.

I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could, she leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Careful, Sandra. Dylan’s secrets have a way of destroying people. You might not survive this game."

Her words sent a chill down my spine.

What game? What secrets?

I looked across the room at Dylan, who was now watching us, his expression unreadable.

And in that moment, I realized something. I wasn’t just playing pretend

anymore.

I was caught in something far bigger, far darker than I had imagined.

To be continued…