Married by mistake to the billionaire

 Talia's pov

If hell had chandeliers and champagne, it would look exactly like Adrian Voss's press conference.

Cameras flashed like lightning. Voices overlapped. The air pulsed with the sweet, sharp scent of perfume, power, and too much money.

I stood beside my new husband - fake husband, contract husband, whatever the hell he was - and smiled like my entire life wasn't a walking press release.

Smile, breathe, and don't murder anyone, my inner voice muttered.

Adrian stood to my right - a wall of calm in a suit that probably cost someone's tuition. He didn't fidget or even blink. Every line of him screamed control.

When the reporters surged forward, he didn't move. Just lifted a hand - one quiet, elegant command - and the room obeyed.

The noise cut instantly.

My breath caught. That power wasn't loud. It was terrifyingly quiet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice low, smooth, practiced. "My wife and I appreciate you joining us on short notice."

Wife.

The word slammed against my ribs. I smiled harder, like that could hold me together.

"Given recent events," Adrian continued, "there's been speculation. Allow me to clarify - my marriage to Talia Monroe was neither impulsive nor reactionary. It was a private ceremony planned well in advance."

He didn't look at me, but his hand brushed mine - just once.

Deliberate. Controlled.

The world saw affection.

I felt choreography.

Touch for the cameras. Hold for the lie.

Reporters shouted over one another.

"When did you meet?"

"How long have you been engaged?"

"Was this revenge on Vanessa King?"

That last name hit him like shrapnel. His jaw flexed - the only break in his perfect armor.

"Mr. Voss?" someone pressed. "Wasn't Miss Monroe jilted by another man just hours before your wedding?"

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

My stomach dropped. Here we go.

Adrian didn't even glance at me. Instead, he placed a hand on the small of my back - light, firm, lethal.

The warmth of his palm cut straight through my skin, my chest tightening with something sharp and uninvited. His touch wasn't gentle; it was a warning, a claim, a silent message that said breathe, or I'll make you.

Then he spoke.

"Everyone in this room has been misinformed," he said evenly. "My wife was never left by anyone. She was waiting for me."

The room fell completely silent.

The words hit like thunder.

A murmur rippled through the press, but no one dared challenge him again.

I turned slightly, whispering, "What was that?"

"Damage control," he murmured, lips barely moving.

"You just rewrote my entire life."

"You're welcome."

I wanted to elbow him. Hard. Preferably on live television.

When the last reporter finally left, I exhaled. "You can drop the act now."

Adrian handed a folder to his assistant without looking at me. "This is me dropping the act."

"You just lied to the entire press corps!"

"I redirected the narrative."

"You gaslighted London!"

He gave me that cool, surgical stare. "Welcome to corporate communication, Mrs. Voss."

He said my name like a verdict.

I paced, heat crawling up my neck. "You didn't even ask me before you said all that."

"Would it have changed anything?"

"Yes!"

"No."

"You are infuriating!"

"I'm efficient."

I groaned. "Stop saying that word like it's foreplay!"

He turned. Slowly. The kind of slow that made air heavy.

Oh God. Why did I say that out loud?

A silence stretched, sharp enough to bleed on. Then - to my horror - one corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

"Foreplay, Mrs. Voss?" he said softly. "Is that what this feels like to you?"

My cheeks burned. "You know what I meant!"

"Do I?"

He took a step forward. Just one. Enough to blur the space between us.

I could feel his breath - clean, cold, faintly cedar - brushing my skin.

"I'm beginning to think you enjoy arguing with me," he said.

"I enjoy proving you wrong," I shot back.

He leaned close enough for his words to slide straight into my pulse. "Careful. You might start enjoying me instead."

My breath hitched. The world tilted.

Abort mission. Don't blush. Don't react. Don't feel.

I stepped back, crossing my arms tight. "You're unbelievable."

"I know."

"Arrogant."

"Accurate."

"You think you can control everyone, don't you?"

He picked up his phone, thumbs gliding, utterly calm. "No. Just you."

The words hit harder than they should have.

On the ride back, city lights blurred against the tinted glass. I sat rigid beside him, trying to ignore how close his shoulder was... or how my pulse still hadn't recovered.

I expected silence, but after a while he said, "You handled yourself well today."

I blinked. "Was that... a compliment?"

"An observation," he said without looking up from his phone.

"Well, I'm honored to be observed."

He didn't smile, but his gaze flicked sideways. "You're not as fragile as people think."

"Gee, thanks. You almost sound impressed."

"I don't get impressed."

"Of course not," I muttered. "That would be inefficient."

He exhaled - quietly, but it was there. Almost like a laugh.

Did Adrian Voss just laugh? Someone alert NASA.

The car turned toward the penthouse. I caught our reflection in the window - me in white silk, him in black suit. Two strangers playing at forever.

It was all performance. But somewhere between the flashes and his hand on my back, something real had started humming underneath.

Something that scared me more than the cameras ever could.

When we got home, he opened my door - not like a gentleman, but like a man who wanted control over when I stepped out. Everything he did was a statement.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Voss," he said.

"Goodnight, Mr. Efficiency."

He paused, that almost-smile threatening his composure. "You're impossible."

"Thank you," I said sweetly. "I try."

He turned to leave, then stopped. "Stay out of trouble."

"Define trouble."

His eyes met mine - calm, cold, unblinking. "You'll know when I find you in it."

He walked away, and I stood there in the echo of his footsteps, my pulse still misbehaving.

I should've been furious. I should've hated every inch of him.

Instead, my mind kept wandering back to that photo on his desk. The boy with the too-bright smile.

The girl beside him - the one who looked familiar in a way I couldn't explain.

Who was she?

And why did I get the feeling that knowing her name would change everything?