The Masked Marriage

The Cross estate sat high above the Pacific, a steel-and-glass fortress that defied the ocean winds. It was designed to be impenetrable—like the man who owned it.

Victor Cross stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the room, his silhouette sharpened by the early morning light. Even at 6 a.m., he was fully dressed: custom-tailored charcoal suit, not a wrinkle in sight, not a thread out of place. To anyone else, he was perfection—power incarnate. To Amelia, he was a ghost in a finely cut cage.

“Paris closed up three percent,” he said, without turning around. His voice, low and exact, carried the weight of a thousand boardrooms.

Amelia sat at the edge of the bed, brushing her hair in slow, deliberate strokes. “And what did Tokyo do?”

“Down two. Unrest over the semiconductor tariffs.”

She nodded, the ritual as familiar as the scent of his cologne that still lingered in the sheets beside her—though he hadn’t slept there in days.

Marriage to Victor was an art form. They attended galas, launched philanthropic foundations, smiled for the cameras. Their faces adorned business magazines, the elite power couple who had it all. But behind the thick walls of their estate, the air was colder.

She rose, tying the silk belt around her robe.

“I’m going to the gallery this afternoon,” she said.

He turned, finally. “Why?”

A simple question. But with Victor, even questions came loaded with precision. Why the gallery? Why now? Who would be there?

“New exhibit. Warhol’s lesser-seen work,” she replied.

He nodded once. “Take security. There’s been press chatter.”

Always the concern with optics. Amelia smiled tightly, a muscle memory more than genuine warmth.

“I’ll survive the critics.”

He crossed the room and placed a kiss—dry, obligatory—on her cheek.

“I’ll be in Shanghai for three days. Prep the foundation board for the transition announcement.”

Then he was gone.

Not a goodbye. Just orders, and the faint sound of the automatic door closing behind him.

---

Downstairs, the staff flowed through the house like trained dancers. Their silence filled the spaces where conversation never occurred. Amelia walked through the hallways slowly, her hand grazing the curved railing of the marble staircase. It was beautiful. All of it. Every piece imported, every corner designed by international architects.

And still, she felt nothing.

In the kitchen, her assistant, Zoe, was reviewing her schedule.

“Ms. Cross, your 11 a.m. is confirmed. The gallery viewing is private, but the curator requested a brief interview for their newsletter.”

“Only if there are no photographers.”

“Understood.” Zoe paused. “Also, Mr. Cross added a new hire to the tech division. Fast-track. Ivy League. Former NGO. Bit of a golden boy.”

Amelia raised a brow. “Victor actually met someone personally?”

Zoe smiled. “Apparently. He’ll be at the gala next week.”

Amelia sipped her coffee. “What’s his name?”

“Elias Ward.”

She repeated it under her breath: Elias. A name she hadn’t heard before. It felt oddly…warm. Human. Unlike the titles and acronyms she usually heard.

By noon, she was standing before the bold red and black brushstrokes of Warhol’s “Death and Disaster” series. The gallery smelled of varnish and old paper—like memory and madness captured on canvas.

Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor. She walked alone, until a voice behind her broke the silence.

“They always skip this one. Too dark, maybe.”

She turned.

There he was.

Young—mid-twenties, maybe. Tall, lean, with tousled dark hair that didn’t obey the rules of billionaire etiquette. No tie. Just a crisp white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled. There was intelligence in his eyes. But more than that: honesty. And in this world, that was rare enough to be dangerous.

“‘Orange Car Crash’ is my favorite,” he said, nodding toward the brutal image on the wall.

“Most people don’t like it,” she replied.

“I’m not most people.”

Amelia smiled despite herself. “Clearly.”

He held out his hand. “Elias Ward.”

She took it. His grip was firm, but not arrogant.

“Amelia Cross.”

He blinked, a flicker of surprise. “As in—”

“Yes,” she said, cutting it short.

He laughed softly. “Didn’t expect to meet you in front of a car crash.”

“Didn’t expect to meet anyone at all.”

They stood there for a moment too long.

Something about him was unsettling—but not in the way Victor unsettled people. Elias was real. It was dangerous.

And she knew, even in that moment, something had just begun. Something irreversible.

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