Page 17 of Her Possessive Dominant Fake Husband

I followed him out, the words of the article following us like ghosts, refusing to stop haunting us.

The city air was thick with anticipation, every passing stranger a potential observer, a potential judge. Alexander walked with measured precision, his fingers flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to clench into fists. I stayed close but not too close—just enough to look the part.

The boutique was tucked between high-end designer stores, its window display showcasing pastel-colored onesies and intricately woven bassinets. The moment we stepped inside, the air shifted. Soft music hummed from hidden speakers, and the scent of lavender and clean cotton filled the space, a stark contrast to the storm brewing between us.

I ran my fingers over a knitted baby blanket, the tiny stitches delicate and perfect, much like the world we were trying to craft out of chaos. “This one’s nice,” I murmured, mostly to myself.

Alexander glanced over, his expression unreadable, then reached for a pair of impossibly tiny shoes—a soft cream leather, so fragile, so innocent compared to the weight pressing down on us. His thumb brushed over them, and for the first time since we left the apartment, something flickered in his gaze that wasn’t fury.

The boutique was a sanctuary of softness—pastel hues, tiny garments folded with care, the scent of fresh cotton weavingthrough the space. It was a world built for beginnings, for tenderness, for the kind of innocence untouched by the chaos waiting outside.

I wandered past rows of impossibly small onesies, my fingers brushing over a tiny embroidered bear on the chest of one. The fabric was delicate, the kind of thing meant for a life so new, so fragile. A strange warmth bloomed in my chest—something dangerously close to longing.

Alexander was quiet beside me, studying the shelves with an intensity that didn’t quite match the setting. Then, he picked up a pair of ivory baby shoes, turning them over in his hands like they were something foreign.

“I can’t believe how small they are,” he said, almost to himself.

I swallowed hard, nodding. “Like they’re barely real.”

But they were real. Every tiny sock, every plush rabbit with oversized ears, every little bonnet meant to shield against the gentlest winds or sunshine. Real—and meant for a life I had never imagined for myself.

I moved toward a bassinet, its wicker frame sturdy yet elegant, draped with a gauzy canopy that made it look like something out of a dream. I could picture it in a quiet bedroom, bathed in soft morning light, filled not with tension, but peace. Love. Something steady, something warm.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered—if this were real, if the whispers and accusations weren’t part of the equation, if this wasn’t just a front—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe holding a tiny hand in mine, watching a newborn stretch and yawn in sleep, feeling the weight of something so precious against my chest… maybe it would be beautiful.

It was a dangerous thought.

Alexander glanced at me, eyes searching, almost hesitant. “Do you see anything you want?”

Want. The word sat heavy in my throat.

Want wasn’t supposed to be part of this arrangement. And yet, standing here, surrounded by proof of what marriage was supposed to be – and what mine wasn’t - I realized I wanted more than I should.

I forced a smile, tearing myself away from the bassinet. “Let’s just pick something that looks convincing.”

Because pretending was safer. And wanting—truly wanting—was far too terrifying.

When we reached the quiet sanctuary of his penthouse, I expected to feel relief. Instead, the silence was oppressive. There was a part of me that wanted to curl up on the couch and hide under a blanket forever, or get lost in a book to escape what our lives were morphing into. I saw the exhaustion catch up with him, saw the flicker of vulnerability that made my own defenses crumble.

He turned to me. “I shouldn’t have put you in this position,” he said, and there was a roughness in his voice that touched some delicate part of me.

At the same time, his admission shocked me. It sank into my skin, tangled with emotions I couldn’t control. I wanted to brush it off, to tell him I didn’t care, that I could handle it.

But the truth was, it shook me. The truth was, I didn’t know how much longer I could stand under the weight of his life, what it meant to be by his side, his world, all while pretending. If this were real, I’d have that comfort, at least. But it’s not. And ina year, who knows if the world will feel they’d been proved right? What if these rumors, whispers, and accusations followed me for the rest of my life?

I watched him, unsure what to do or say, how to make things right. His eyes were dark and tired, stripped of their usual sharpness, and that did something to me I wasn’t ready for. It made me want. Made me feel. Made me consider stepping closer to him and pulling him into a hug for comfort, to help him feel less alone.

“Claire,” he said, and the sound of my name on his lips sounded raw, intimate. It left my heart pounding and my body coming to life in a way I tried to fight.

I stepped closer, the motion having an effect on him too. His jaw flexed, his gaze followed me, his eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. I shouldn’t let this happen. But I was helpless against it, against the deep need to comfort him that wormed through me. I would have done the same for anyone, I told myself.

I reached for him before I could second-guess myself, pressing my hands to the back of his powerful arms and pulling him closer. He didn’t resist. He didn’t hesitate.

The moment his body met mine, something shifted. The tension he carried, the weight of whatever storm churned inside him, eased just a little bit. His muscles, always wound tight, relaxed slightly against me, like he was giving in to something he couldn’t fight anymore.

I pressed my cheek against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the way his heartbeat thumped against my face. He smelled like warmth and steadiness—like something familiar, something safe.

Home.

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