The other woman was everything Elara was supposed to be—polished, predatory, and perfectly aware of the rules of their "marriage."
Elara Larsen stood in the glittering ballroom of the gala, the diamond choker around her neck a suffocating weight. Its locked clasp felt more like a shackle than jewelry.
The room shimmered with wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers scattered fractured light. Champagne glasses clinked. Designer gowns whispered against polished marble floors.
Elara stood beside Damien Vance, his hand a brand at the small of her back. The white silk gown he'd chosen for her clung like a second skin. To everyone else, they were the perfect couple—a billionaire and his radiant bride.
To her, it was theater. And she was the prop. Forced to smile through the ache of his punishment.
Her father's fate hung over her like a blade. She could still hear Damien's calm voice on the phone with his CFO—ordering the freeze on Larsen Industries' investment. Each word replayed in her mind like a lash.
Default notices would come tomorrow. Her family's legacy—gone. All because of her defiance.
The choker seemed to tighten with every breath. His earlier command echoed in her ears: "Smile, and remember your place."
So she smiled. A brittle, practiced thing. Her green eyes scanned the crowd, careful not to meet his. But his presence was inescapable. His heat pressed through silk and skin, his control a chain she couldn't escape.
The crowd shifted.
A woman approached.
Confidence in her stride. Danger in her smile.
Isabella Thornton.
A vision in crimson. Her gown hugged every curve, her golden hair tumbling in perfect waves. Her blue eyes sparkled like knives.
Elara's stomach twisted. She knew that name—knew that face. Damien's former lover. A socialite who ruled this world like she owned it.
Isabella's gaze flicked over Elara once—assessing, dismissing—before landing on Damien. Her smile sharpened.
"Damien, darling," Isabella purred, brushing a kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered too long. "What a surprise to see you so… domesticated."
Damien's lips curved faintly. Amusement flashed in his gray eyes. He didn't move away. Didn't correct her.
His hand stayed exactly where it was—on Elara's back. A silent command: stay still. Endure.
"Isabella," he said smoothly. "You look as radiant as ever."
Elara's jaw tightened. The fake smile on her lips wavered.
She felt like a doll, perfectly dressed and utterly powerless, while his ex-lover circled like a predator.
Isabella turned to her, eyes bright with mockery. "And this must be the assistant-turned-bride," she said, voice dripping sugar and venom. "Elara, is it? So charmingly… quaint. From a small family business, I hear? How sweet. Must be quite the adjustment—stepping into Damien's world."
The words landed like a slap.
Elara's cheeks burned. Her background—her family—wasn't something to be mocked. But under Isabella's perfect smile, the humiliation stung sharper than any insult.
She started to answer, but Damien's hand pressed into her back. A silent don't.
He was watching. Testing her.
So she swallowed her pride and forced her smile to hold. "It's an honor to be here," she said evenly. "Damien's been… very supportive."
Isabella laughed. A soft, crystalline sound that cut like glass.
"Oh, I'm sure he has," she said, glancing at Damien with a knowing gleam. "He's always been so generous with his… projects."
Elara's heart pounded. She wanted to lash out—to remind this woman that she was his wife.
But Damien stood silent. Watching. Amused.
He was letting this happen. Letting Isabella twist the knife while he studied Elara's reaction, waiting to see if she'd break.
The choker dug into her throat. A reminder: she was his to test. His to control.
The conversation dragged on.
Isabella's voice was honeyed poison—her words all smiles and subtle cuts."Rustic charm.""Unexpected rise.""Adorable simplicity."
Each phrase felt like another dagger cloaked in velvet.
People were watching. Some with pity, others with thinly veiled delight.
Elara stood frozen beneath their eyes, her body rigid, her smile brittle. Rage coiled in her chest, but she couldn't show it. Not here. Not while he watched.
She was Elara Larsen. Smart. Capable. Not a fragile ornament.
But under Damien's hand, under Isabella's smug stare, she felt herself shrinking—reduced to a pawn in his game.
Then it happened.
Isabella lifted her wine glass to gesture—too casually.
Red wine spilled, splashing across Elara's white gown.
The crimson spread fast, blooming like blood.
Elara gasped, stepping back. The cold liquid clung to her skin, staining silk and dignity alike.
The crowd murmured. Eyes turned. Whispered. Watched.
Isabella's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry!" she cried, too loud, too sweet. "How clumsy of me!"
Her voice carried, her tone theatrical—perfectly insincere.
Elara's humiliation burned hot. The stain wasn't just wine. It was a mark. A public humiliation.
She looked at Damien.
Hoping—stupidly—for rescue.
But his eyes weren't on her. They were on Isabella. A faint smirk curved his lips.
He was enjoying this.
Finally, he stepped forward.
Leaning close to Isabella, his voice low—but deliberate enough for Elara to hear.
"Jealousy's an ugly color on you, Isabella," he murmured. "Then again, you always did crave a ring I never offered."
The crowd tittered.
Isabella's smile faltered, a flash of something sharp in her eyes. But she recovered quickly, her laugh brittle. "Oh, Damien," she said lightly. "Always so cruel."
Elara stood there, the wine still dripping from her gown, her pulse roaring in her ears.
He hadn't defended her.
He'd simply won another round of whatever cruel game he was playing.
She was nothing but a piece on his board—his wife in title, his pawn in practice.
His hand found her arm. Firm. Possessive.
"Come," he said softly. "We're leaving."
She followed, legs trembling as the crowd parted.
The whispers followed her. The red stain trailed behind her like shame.
The diamonds at her throat bit into her skin with every breath.
She was his. Entirely.
But at what cost?
Outside, the night air was cold against her soaked gown.
The Rolls-Royce waited at the curb, glossy and black.
He opened the door. Guided her in.
Neither of them spoke. The silence was suffocating.
The city lights blurred through the tinted windows.
Elara stared out, her heart tight with a single, aching question:
Was she a wife, a prisoner… or simply a piece in a game she could never win?
Damien's hand rested on her thigh.
Possessive. Steady.
And as the car sped through the city, she feared she already knew the answer.