The sun had dipped low behind the villa, casting long shadows over the polished stone steps that led up to the gated residence. The air smelled faintly of lavender and concrete.

One by one, the women stepped out.

Soraya Martel adjusted the strap of her backpack and stepped onto the driveway, heels clicking softly against the concrete. Her dark curls were pinned back in a low, unfussy twist. Her clothes were clean, modest, simple — the way she liked it. Not too bright, not too plain. Just enough to go unnoticed.

Which, apparently, was already impossible here.

Four other women stood nearby, each a different brand of polished — glossy lips, styled hair, designer bags in hand. They looked like they’d walked off the set of a drama shoot. Soraya gave them a polite nod, receiving a mix of glances in return — curiosity, confusion, one already dismissive.

She didn’t mind. She hadn’t come here to make friends. Just to survive the next three years.

Inside the villa, glass doors slid open. Five men appeared at the top of the staircase — tall, dressed in loose casuals, their faces all too familiar to anyone with internet access in Daelin.

ONIX. The nation’s beloved band.

Soraya had never paid much attention to celebrity culture. She only recognized the silver-haired one from a commercial plastered all over the subway last month. But now… seeing them in person, walking down with easy confidence, it hit her.

Her husband was one of them.

They never told me who.

No photos. No names. Just a contract. A sealed envelope. A ring.

The members descended the stairs, some making their way toward the women with soft smiles or sheepish grins. One walked straight to a woman in white and pulled her into a hug. Another gave his wife a small bow before taking her bag.

The remaining two scanned the group, clearly meeting their matches for the first time. And then there was the last one.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move right away.

Just stood on the last step, arms crossed, dark eyes cool and unreadable.

Soraya didn’t flinch under the look. She met it evenly — not out of confidence, but detachment. She didn’t know what he was thinking, and honestly, she wasn’t trying to.

Until he moved.

His gaze dropped briefly to her hand.

Then rose back to her eyes.

Then he walked toward her.

Straight toward her.

When he stopped, there was just enough distance between them to avoid a scene, but not enough to pretend he wasn’t here for her.

His voice was low. “You’re wearing it.”

Soraya glanced down at her hand. The silver ring shimmered faintly under the fading sun.

“I was told to,” she said.

A pause. “No — it’s good.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You didn’t expect me to?”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he reached for her suitcase and motioned toward the stairs. “Come on. It’s going to get crowded in here soon.”

She followed without a word.

Behind her, the other wives were still chatting and pairing off. Some stared. Others whispered.

But Soraya didn’t care.

She was here because of a law. A signature. A quiet desperation.

He was here for reasons of his own.

They didn’t need to talk about it.

Not yet