Mr. Lewis Is Late

My name is Melissa Quinn; I am the second daughter of the Quinn Family. Three months ago, I married Daniel Lewis—the sole heir of the Lewis Group. This marriage was a covenant forged by our ancestors, utterly devoid of affection, concerned only with family interests. I never once longed for his tenderness; after all, from the very beginning, we were merely contract spouses, each fulfilling our own needs. On the night of the Lewis Group's anniversary celebration, the crystal chandelier in the banquet hall sparkled brilliantly, casting light on the elegant crowd. The air was thick with the sweet scent of champagne mingled with luxury perfumes, while a lilting waltz floated beneath the dome. I wore a champagne-colored gown, its hem embroidered with delicate pearls that shimmered softly in the light. As I linked my arm with Daniel Lewis', my fingertips felt the crispness of his suit fabric, yet not a trace of warmth. I played the role of the enviable Mrs. Lewis, smiling and nodding at the passing guests, but from the corner of my eye, I caught his gaze drifting through the crowd, marked by a restlessness I had never seen before, as if searching for something.