The Contract Ex-Husband of Wealthy Widow

"Adjust your cufflinks, Raka. You look like you bought that suit at a clearance sale."

Raka didn't look at her. He stared at his reflection in the tinted window of the Maybach. "It’s a five-thousand-dollar Tom Ford, Anya. You bought it."

"I bought the suit, not the confidence. Fix it. Now."

Raka exhaled, his fingers trembling slightly as he toyed with the silver links. "Better?"

Anya leaned closer, the scent of her Chanel No. 5 hitting him like a physical blow. She reached out, her manicured nails grazing his jaw before she roughly straightened his collar. "You’re a prop, Raka. A very expensive, very handsome prop. Remember that when we walk through those doors."

"Hard to forget when you remind me every ten minutes."

"Good. If you trip over your tongue or look at me with those pathetic 'help me' eyes, Artemis & Associates won't just cancel your contract. They’ll make sure you never find work as a janitor in this city. Understood?"

"Crystal."

The valet opened the door. The roar of the party spilled out—clinking glasses, a string quartet playing something expensive, and the hum of voices that sounded like money. Anya’s demeanor shifted instantly. The cold, sharp-tongued woman vanished, replaced by a radiant, adoring wife. She slipped her arm through his, her grip like a vice.

"Smile, darling," she whispered through a fixed, pearly grin. "We’re in love."

"I’m beaming, sweetheart."

They stepped onto the red carpet. The flashes of cameras were blinding.

"Anya! Over here! Who’s the lucky man?" a reporter shouted.

Anya squeezed Raka’s arm. "This is Raka, my husband. Isn't he divine?"

"Where have you been hiding him?" another voice called out.

"In my heart, mostly," Anya chirped. "He’s very private. A brilliant investor, but he hates the spotlight."

"Is that true, Raka?"

Raka forced his lips to curve. "I prefer focusing on Anya. She’s the only investment that matters."

"Oh, stop it, you!" Anya giggled, swatting his chest playfully.

As they moved past the press line and into the main ballroom, her voice dropped back into a low, icy hiss. "That was almost believable. Try not to sound like you’re reading from a teleprompter next time."

"I'm doing my best."

"Your best is barely adequate. Look, there’s the Miller crowd. We’re going over. If Mrs. Miller asks about our honeymoon in the Maldives, tell her the weather was perfect but we barely left the villa. Make it sound suggestive."

"Got it. Sex in the Maldives. Very original."

"Just do it."

They drifted into a circle of socialites dripping in diamonds.

"Anya, dear! You look stunning," a woman with a face pulled too tight by plastic surgery exclaimed. "And this must be the mysterious husband."

"Raka, this is Beatrice Miller," Anya said, her voice dripping with fake warmth. "Beatrice, this is my world."

Raka took the woman’s hand and gave it a light, practiced kiss. "A pleasure, Mrs. Miller. Anya hasn't stopped talking about your charity work."

"Oh, he’s a charmer! So, Anya tells me you two just got back from the Maldives. How was it?"

Raka felt Anya’s fingernails dig into his bicep. "To be honest, Beatrice, I couldn't tell you much about the scenery. The villa was so comfortable, and Anya was... well, she was very distracting."

The women in the circle tittered. Beatrice winked. "I bet she was. You two look so passionate."

"It’s exhausting, really," Anya added, leaning her head on Raka’s shoulder. "He won't let me catch my breath."

"Well, keep him close, Anya. Men like that don't stay single for long," Beatrice laughed.

"Oh, he’s not going anywhere," Anya said, her eyes locking onto Raka’s with a terrifying intensity. "Are you, darling?"

"Nowhere at all," Raka replied.

The conversation drifted into talk of hedge funds and yacht builders. Raka felt the walls closing in. The air was thick with expensive perfume and even more expensive lies.

"I need a drink," Raka whispered.

"Get me a gin and tonic. Don't be long. And don't talk to anyone," Anya commanded, her smile never wavering as she turned back to Beatrice.

Raka broke away, heading for the bar. He felt like he was suffocating. He ordered a scotch, neat. He needed something that burned.

"Rough night?"

Raka turned. A man in a sharp grey suit was leaning against the bar, watching him. He wasn't one of the usual socialites. His eyes were too sharp, too observant.

"Just a long one," Raka said, taking a sip of his drink.

"Being a husband is hard work. Especially when the job description is so... specific."

Raka froze. He set the glass down. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sure you don't. Enjoy the party, Raka."

The man turned and vanished into the crowd before Raka could respond. His heart hammered against his ribs. Who was that? How did he know his name?

"Raka! Where is my drink?"

Anya appeared at his side, her face tight with fury. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a secluded hallway leading to the private lounges.

"I’m sorry, I got caught up—"

"Shut up," she hissed, shoving him into a small, dimly lit room and locking the door. "You were talking to someone. Who was he?"

"I don't know! Just some guy at the bar."

"You’re lying. You looked spooked."

"He knew my name, Anya. He said something about the job description."

Anya’s expression shifted from anger to a cold, calculating stillness. She walked toward him, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She stopped inches away, her breath hot on his face.

"Listen to me, you little shit. If you’ve compromised this, if you’ve been talking to anyone outside of Artemis, I will destroy you. I will take back every cent, and I’ll make sure you end up in a ditch."

"I didn't say anything! He approached me!"

Anya stared at him for a long beat, searching for a tell. Then, she reached out and began unzipping her dress. "You’re tense. You’re going to ruin the 'passionate' vibe if you go back out there looking like you’ve seen a ghost."

Raka blinked. "What are you doing? We’re at a party."

"I’m giving you an alibi for why we’ve been gone so long. And I’m making sure you remember who owns you."

The dress slid to the floor. She was wearing lace that cost more than Raka’s old car. She stepped into his space, her hands moving to his belt.

"Anya, this isn't—"

"Don't talk. Just perform. That’s what I pay for, isn't it?"

She pushed him back against a velvet chaise lounge. Her movements were clinical, devoid of any actual warmth, yet her body was an instrument of pure provocation. She climbed onto his lap, her eyes fixed on his, cold as ice.

"Do you like this, Raka? The luxury? The clothes? The feeling of being wanted by a woman like me?"

Raka’s breath hitched. He hated her. He hated himself. But his body was betraying his mind. "It’s a job."

"Then do your job."

She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "Harder. I want them to hear you through the door. I want everyone out there to think I’ve got you completely under my spell."

The encounter was frantic and one-sided. Anya moved with a ruthless efficiency, her hands gripping his hair, her voice letting out staged moans that sounded perfectly authentic to anyone listening in the hallway. Raka felt like an object, a tool being used to sharpen a blade. There was no intimacy, only the friction of a transaction.

When she finished, she stood up immediately, her face instantly returning to a mask of bored indifference. She stepped back into her dress and zipped it up with a sharp *zip*.

"Fix your hair," she said, checking her lipstick in a compact mirror. "And wait five minutes before you come back out. If anyone asks, I was 'insatiable'."

"You’re a monster," Raka muttered, adjusting his clothes.

Anya paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. "No, Raka. I’m a client. And you’re the help. Don't get the two confused again."

She unlocked the door and stepped out, her laughter echoing down the hall as she rejoined the gala.

Raka sat in the dim light, the silence of the room heavier than the noise outside. He looked at his hands. They were still shaking. He felt sick. The money in his bank account didn't feel like a lifeline anymore; it felt like a weight dragging him to the bottom of the ocean.

He waited the five minutes, then stepped out. He smoothed his suit, put on the mask, and headed back to the ballroom.

He scanned the crowd for Anya, but his eyes kept drifting, searching for the man in the grey suit. He found her near the fountain, holding a fresh drink, surrounded by a new group of admirers.

As he walked toward her, he felt a gaze burning into the back of his neck. He turned his head slightly.

The man in the grey suit was standing by the balcony doors. He wasn't looking at the party. He was looking directly at Raka. He raised his glass in a silent toast, a mocking smirk playing on his lips.

Raka turned away, his stomach churning.

"There you are, darling!" Anya called out, her voice bright and cheery. "I was starting to think you’d fallen asleep."

"Just catching my breath, Anya," Raka said, stepping into place beside her.

"Well, don't go far. The night is just beginning."

Raka looked at the glittering crowd, the fake smiles, and the sea of champagne. He felt a cold dread settling in his chest. The man’s gaze hadn't been a coincidence. It was a warning.

The play was still going, but the audience knew the actors were lying. And in this world, when the lie broke, the actors usually didn't survive the finale.

"Is something wrong, Raka?" Anya whispered, her hand squeezing his arm tight enough to bruise.

"No," Raka lied, his voice steady. "Everything is perfect."

"Good. Keep it that way."

As the music swelled, Raka realized he wasn't just playing a husband. He was playing a ghost. And the man in the grey suit was waiting for him to finally disappear.