Zara hated heels.
They pinched her toes, made her walk like a malfunctioning giraffe, and most importantly—they weren't slippers.
So of course, tonight she was wearing four-inch stilettos with red soles and a price tag that could feed her for a month. She suspected they were made by a Frenchman who had never actually walked.
"Why do rich people think pain equals elegance?" she muttered under her breath, gripping Noah's arm like a lifeline as they stepped out of the sleek black car.
"You're doing fine," Noah whispered, flashing a practiced smile toward the flashing cameras.
"That's a lie, and you know it," Zara hissed. "My feet are dying. If I pass out mid-step, tell them I died doing what I hated most—pretending to care."
He stifled a laugh. "You look stunning, for what it's worth."
"I look like I'm one wrong step away from kissing the red carpet—face first."
But he wasn't wrong.
Zara was dressed in a midnight blue gown that shimmered like crushed stars. The slit on her leg was both elegant and slightly terrifying. Her hair was twisted up with soft waves framing her face, and the red lipstick made her look dangerous in the best way.
As they approached the entrance to the grand ballroom, the crowd parted, camera flashes popping like mini-explosions. The buzz shifted. Heads turned.
> "That's her?"
"No way that's the same girl in the viral video."
"She cleans up well."
"I'd date her in slippers or heels."
Zara straightened her back and gave them what she called her "I'll eat you alive" smile.
Let them gawk.
She had confidence, lipstick, and a billionaire on her arm. That was more than enough to survive high society.
The ballroom was dripping with money—crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains, a live string quartet playing near the fountain of champagne. It was beautiful. Elegant.
She hated it.
"Everyone in this room looks like they smell like money and secrets," she muttered.
"Accurate," Noah said, keeping a steady hand on her back as they weaved through people.
They greeted politicians, CEOs, and one over-Botoxed woman who looked at Zara like she was a bug on her Louis Vuitton heels.
Zara greeted her back with a smile sweet enough to cause cavities.
Then came Marcus Hale.
Tall. Perfect smile. Sleazy eyes.
"Zara Everleigh," he said smoothly, taking her hand and brushing it with a kiss. "You're even lovelier in person."
"That's what mirrors are for," she replied dryly, withdrawing her hand.
Marcus chuckled. "Noah, you've been hiding her."
"Not anymore," Noah said evenly, his arm tightening ever so slightly around her waist.
> Oh?
Was that... possessiveness?
Zara filed the thought away and focused on the shrimp tower.
An hour passed.
Zara mastered the art of fake laughing, strategic sipping, and pretending not to plot an escape route. Noah never left her side.
He introduced her as if they'd known each other for years. Whispered jokes only she could hear. Handed her drinks before she asked. Pulled her out of awkward conversations with subtle touches and low murmurs in her ear.
And when she nearly tripped on a loose tile, he caught her like they were mid-scene in a K-drama.
"You're not allowed to fall tonight," he whispered. "You look too expensive."
"Good," she said. "If I break, you'll owe me a replacement."
After dessert, the music swelled, and couples drifted to the dance floor.
Zara felt her stomach sink.
"I don't dance," she whispered.
"You do tonight," Noah replied, already offering his hand.
She stared at him.
Then the cameras.
Then back at him.
He didn't pressure. Just waited.
Zara sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if I fall, you're going down with me."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
He led her onto the floor.
He was... good.
Smooth. Confident. Not too flashy. Just the right pressure on her hand, just the right distance.
And Zara—Zara who hadn't danced since a friend's wedding three years ago—found herself smiling.
"You've done this before," she said.
"Boardroom. Ballroom. Not so different."
"I doubt CEOs dip their partners at quarterly meetings."
Noah raised a brow. "Depends on the meeting."
She laughed.
He looked at her like it surprised him. Then, a tiny smile ghosted across his lips. Not his PR smile. Not his smirk. Something... real.
Zara looked away.
---
The dance ended with polite applause.
Photos were taken. She smiled at one, then flipped the camera off at another.
Later, in the car, she kicked off her heels with a groan.
"You rich people are exhausting."
Noah chuckled. "We're not all bad."
"You're tolerable. But only because you paid for my eyeliner."
He turned to her, serious now.
"You were incredible tonight."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You handled them like you were born for it."
Zara scoffed. "Please. I fake confidence the way influencer fake skincare routines."
"But it worked."
He stared at her.
And for one weird second, the car was too quiet. Too still.
Like something could happen. But it didn't. So Zara broke the silence the only way she knew how.
"Next time we're faking this kind of thing, I want sushi after. And slippers."
He smiled. "Deal."