The Contract Ex-Husband of Wealthy Widow

Chapter 6: Shadows Behind the Curtain

The chandelier in the ballroom of the Sterling Estate was large enough to crush a small house, and just as heavy. Raka stood beneath it, a crystal flute of vintage Krug in his hand, feeling the weight of a thousand eyes on his back. Beside him, Anya was a vision in emerald silk, her hand draped possessively over his forearm.

"Smile, Raka. You look like you’re contemplating a leap from the balcony," Anya whispered, her lips barely moving behind her practiced socialite grin.

"Maybe I am. The view is better from down there," Raka replied, his voice a low vibration. "How many more of these 'intimate gatherings' do we have this week?"

"Three. And don't call them gatherings. These are battlegrounds. Look to your left—the woman in the hideous mauve sequins is Clara Vance. Her husband 'slipped' off their yacht in Croatia last summer. She’s watching us."

"Is that the goal today? To make a widow jealous?"

"The goal is to make everyone believe you are the sun I revolve around. Now, kiss my temple and tell me something that makes me look like I’m blushing."

Raka leaned in, his lips brushing the cool skin of her forehead. "The man from the gala—the one in the grey suit—is standing by the buffet. He hasn't looked away from us for ten minutes."

Anya’s grip on his arm tightened until her nails bit through the fabric of his tuxedo. "Don't look at him. Ignore him. He’s nothing."

"He didn't feel like nothing when he called me by name, Anya."

"I said ignore it. If you can't handle a little scrutiny, you’re in the wrong profession."

"Is this a profession? I thought I was a prop."

"A prop that talks too much. Oh, look, here comes Julian. Be charming or be quiet."

A silver-haired man approached, smelling of cedarwood and old money. "Anya, darling! And this must be the man who finally tamed the wild heart of the city."

"Julian, you flatterer," Anya chirped, her voice shifting into a bright, flirtatious register. "This is Raka. Raka, Julian is the reason the city’s skyline looks the way it does."

Raka shook the man’s hand. "A pleasure. Anya’s told me so much about your... architectural contributions."

"Has she now? Usually, Anya only talks about her own acquisitions," Julian chuckled, his eyes scanning Raka with a predatory sharpness. "You’re a lucky man, Raka. Or a very brave one."

"A bit of both, I think," Raka replied.

"He’s humble, too! How refreshing. Tell me, what do you do when you aren't being Anya’s better half?"

"Private equity," Raka said, the lie sliding off his tongue with practiced ease. "I prefer to stay in the shadows. The numbers are quieter there."

"Spoken like a man with secrets. I like that. We should have lunch, Raka. I have a project in the Caymans that could use a quiet set of eyes."

"I’ll check my schedule," Raka said.

"He’s very busy, Julian," Anya interjected, pulling Raka closer. "I barely get him to myself as it is. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I think I need another drink."

As they moved toward the bar, Anya’s face went flat. "That was acceptable. But Julian is a shark. Don't take that lunch. He’ll strip you to the bone just to see what’s inside."

"I’m already being stripped to the bone, Anya. I’m just getting paid for it now."

"Don't get pathetic. It ruins the suit."

***

The drive back to Anya’s mansion was silent. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows of the Maybach like streaks of neon bile. Once inside the foyer, Anya kicked off her heels, leaving them where they fell on the marble floor.

"Upstairs," she commanded. "I’m wound too tight. I need to unwind."

Raka followed her. He knew the routine. The "unwinding" was part of the maintenance. It was the only time Anya dropped the socialite mask, but what lay beneath was often colder.

In her master suite, the air was chilled to a precise sixty-eight degrees. Anya stood in the center of the room, her back to him. "Unzip me."

Raka stepped forward, his fingers working the hidden fastener of the emerald dress. As the silk pooled at her feet, she turned around, her lace lingerie a dark contrast to her pale, porcelain skin.

"You’re thinking about the man in the grey suit again," she said, her eyes tracking the movement of his throat.

"It’s hard not to when you get that look in your eyes every time he’s mentioned."

"Then stop mentioning him." She pushed him back toward the massive, silk-covered bed. "Do your job, Raka. Make me forget the world exists."

She climbed onto him, her movements aggressive and devoid of any tenderness. She didn't want intimacy; she wanted a physical distraction. She gripped his hair, pulling his head back as she bit his lower lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

"Do you like being owned, Raka?" she hissed, her breath hot against his ear. "Does it feel good to know you’re worth exactly what I pay you?"

"I think we both know who’s being used here, Anya," Raka growled, his hands finding her waist, his fingers digging into her skin.

"Then use me. Prove you aren't just a suit with a pulse."

She moved with a desperate, frantic energy, her body arching as she chased a release that seemed to be the only thing that could quiet her mind. Raka met her pace, his own frustration fueling the encounter. It was a battle of wills disguised as sex, a transaction of friction and heat.

"Harder," she moaned, her voice a jagged edge in the quiet room. "I want to feel something real. Just for a second."

When she finally broke, a sharp, strangled cry escaped her, and she collapsed against his chest, her heart hammering like a trapped bird. But the moment of vulnerability lasted only seconds. She pushed herself up, her face instantly returning to its mask of indifference.

"Go wash up," she said, her voice flat. "I have calls to make."

***

Raka emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, a towel wrapped around his waist. The bedroom was empty. He heard a muffled voice coming from the small, private study connected to the suite.

He moved silently across the thick carpet. The door was cracked open just a sliver.

"I don't care about the cost, Darma," Anya’s voice was a sharp hiss. "The old problems aren't gone. They’re just buried deeper. If the auditors find the discrepancy in the estate's offshore holdings, we’re both finished."

Raka froze, his heart racing. *Darma.* The man in the grey suit.

"He doesn't know anything," Anya continued. "He’s a puppet. A bankrupt executive who’s too grateful for the silk sheets to ask questions. Just keep the trail clean. If I have to deal with another 'accident' like the one in Milan, I’ll lose my mind."

There was a pause, then the sound of a phone being set down on a desk.

Raka retreated into the shadows of the hallway as he heard Anya’s footsteps. She didn't come back to the bedroom; she went down the back stairs toward the kitchen.

Sensing an opportunity, Raka slipped into the study. It was a room he was rarely allowed to enter. It smelled of old paper and Anya’s sharp perfume. His eyes darted across the desk—stacks of legal documents, a gold-plated laptop, and a small, antique mahogany desk with a single drawer.

He tried the handle. Locked.

He scanned the room. On a small side table sat Anya’s handbag. He reached inside, his fingers trembling as they brushed past a Chanel compact and a silk scarf. At the bottom, he felt a small, heavy key.

He inserted it into the drawer. It turned with a satisfying *click*.

Inside was a single manila folder and a small, black burner phone. Raka opened the folder. His eyes widened. It was a series of death certificates—men’s names he didn't recognize, but the cause of death was always the same: *Accidental.*

Beneath the certificates was a photograph. It was a picture of a younger Anya, standing next to a man who looked remarkably like Raka. The man’s face had been aggressively scratched out with a pen.

"Looking for something, darling?"

The voice was like a lash. Raka spun around. Anya was standing in the doorway, a glass of dark liquid in her hand. Her expression was terrifyingly calm.

"I... I was looking for a pen, Anya. I wanted to jot down a reminder for Julian’s lunch."

Anya walked into the room, her eyes never leaving his. She looked at the open drawer, then at the folder in his hand. She took a slow sip of her drink.

"You’re a terrible liar, Raka. It was one of the reasons you went bankrupt, I imagine. You don't have the stomach for the long game."

"Who are these men, Anya? And why does this one have my face?"

Anya set her glass down on the desk with a sharp *clack*. She stepped into his space, her presence suddenly suffocating. "Those are none of your business. Your business is to stand where I tell you and look pretty for the cameras."

"The 'old problems' you mentioned on the phone... the 'accidents'... what are you doing?"

Anya reached out and gripped his chin, her nails digging into his jaw. "Listen to me very carefully, you little charity case. You signed a contract with Artemis & Associates. That contract doesn't just own your time; it owns your silence. If you ever, *ever* go through my things again, or if you mention anything you heard in this room, the next 'accidental' death certificate I file will have your name on it."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I’m informing you of the terms of your survival," she hissed. "You think you’re an investigator now? You’re a prop. And props that stop working get thrown away. Do you understand?"

Raka stared into her eyes. He saw no soul there, only a cold, calculating void. "I understand."

"Good." She slammed the drawer shut and locked it, pocketing the key. "Now, go back to your room. You have a breakfast meeting with the press at 8:00 AM. Try to look like a man who’s blissfully in love, rather than one who’s just realized he’s sleeping with a monster."

Raka walked out of the study, the hair on his arms standing up. As he entered his own bedroom, he realized the walls of the mansion were no longer a palace—they were a cage. And the woman he was married to wasn't just a socialite. She was a predator.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the silence of the house pressing in on him. He thought of the scratched-out face in the photo. He thought of the man in the grey suit.

He wasn't just a husband. He was a replacement. And if he wasn't careful, he was going to be the next ghost in Anya’s collection.

"What have I done?" he whispered to the darkness.

The only reply was the soft, distant click of Anya’s heels in the hallway, a rhythmic reminder that the architect of his new life was always watching, and she never missed a flaw.