Chapter 5: The Gala of Masks
The city shimmered in silver as Elara stepped out of the car, her hand delicately resting on Lucien's arm.
She wore the sapphire necklace—his mother's—and a midnight-blue silk gown that hugged her like a secret. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. But Elara's face was calm, her smile polished. Her fingers, though, were trembling where they touched Lucien's sleeve.
Lucien leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. "Grip my arm tighter. Smile softer. Pretend you're safe."
She obeyed.
They walked the crimson carpet like a perfectly tailored illusion. Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood—the modern fairy tale.
Inside the ballroom, chandeliers glittered above the sea of designer gowns and tuxedos. Music swirled like perfume. Elara caught sight of journalists, shareholders, politicians—all watching them.
Lucien kept his hand at the small of her back, his touch precise. Possessive. Rehearsed.
"You're stunning," whispered a woman as they passed.
Lucien replied without looking, "She always is."
Elara blinked.
A compliment? Or another line?
---
At the Gala Table
Elara sipped her wine and scanned the guests. On her right, Lucien discussed numbers with the mayor. On her left sat an older woman with hawk eyes and diamonds as large as her disapproval.
"You're the girl Lucien married?" the woman asked.
Elara smiled. "Yes."
"From… where was it again? Not the Ivy League."
"No," Elara replied sweetly. "Just a simple school. But they taught me not to judge books by their billion-dollar covers."
Lucien hid a smirk behind his glass.
The older woman looked stunned, but Elara turned her attention elsewhere before she could respond.
Suddenly, a familiar voice floated through the crowd.
"Elara?"
She turned—and her blood chilled.
Damien Rook.
Lucien's rival. And her former art mentor.
Damien approached, tall, sharp, and far too charming. "I didn't know you were married."
Lucien stood. "Damien."
"Lucien," Damien replied smoothly, offering his hand. "Congratulations. She's... quite a treasure."
Elara could feel the tension thicken. Damien's gaze lingered on her just a second too long.
Lucien's fingers closed around hers under the table. "She is."
---
Later in the Garden
Elara escaped to the terrace, her breath tight.
She leaned against a pillar, stars above her, the necklace cold against her skin.
Damien appeared like a shadow.
"You looked like a prisoner in that ballroom," he said quietly.
"I'm fine," she replied.
He stepped closer. "You don't belong in his world, Elara. He'll break you."
"I'm not yours to worry about."
Damien's eyes darkened. "No, but you used to be."
Before she could respond, the terrace door opened.
Lucien.
He looked at Damien, then at her, his jaw tight.
"Come," he said to Elara. "Now."
Damien didn't move. "You don't own her."
Lucien's voice was calm—but lethal. "She wears my name, my ring, and my mother's necklace. Remind me what you gave her, Rook."
Elara followed Lucien back inside, the air between them crackling.
But as he guided her through the crowd, his hand didn't leave hers.
Not once.