Chapter 7 — Prelude to the Gala
"Elegance is not the absence of fear, but the art of concealing it in silk."
Arielle
The gown arrived at noon.
Wrapped in ivory tissue and sealed with the gold insignia of Maison Étoile, it lay across her apartment sofa like something stolen from a dream. A deep violet creation—sleek, backless, shimmering faintly under the sunlight that poured through her balcony windows. The note attached was brief, written in a familiar, deliberate hand.
> Arielle,
For tomorrow. The color suits your resolve.
— D.V.
She stared at it for a long time. No message could sound less personal and yet feel more intimate.
The seamstress had called hours earlier, confirming measurements that Arielle hadn't given—meaning Damian still remembered. The thought made her chest tighten in a way she didn't want to name.
She slipped into the dress carefully. The silk whispered over her skin, cool and possessive. The fabric fit perfectly, sculpting her silhouette like memory rediscovered. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back—a vision of poise, power, and something quietly dangerous.
Her reflection smirked. Professional, she reminded herself. Composed. But deep down, beneath the luxury and restraint, her heart was betraying her.
"Stop it," she whispered to her reflection. "You know better."
Yet when she turned, the faintest trace of a smile curved her lips—equal parts defiance and fear. Because she knew the truth: Damian Valen didn't choose anything by accident. Not her, not this dress, not the moment he planned to walk beside her again in front of the world.
Her phone buzzed.
> D.V.: Car arrives at seven. Don't be late.
A.M.: I'm never late.
D.V.: You were once. Paris, 2018.
Her breath caught. The screen blurred slightly before she locked it. He remembered that too.
---
Damian
The penthouse felt too still.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, tie in hand, watching the reflection of a man who'd built empires yet couldn't quite master restraint. His tuxedo jacket lay draped over a chair; the cufflinks—gold with black enamel—were gifts from a board member, though he'd never worn them until now.
The gala was hours away. The city glittered below him, restless and loud. Yet he felt the quiet hum of anticipation in his chest, the kind that used to mean victory—now it just meant her.
He'd seen the delivery confirmation. He could imagine her reaction: the stubborn press of her lips, the silent argument in her eyes. She would wear the dress. Not because he asked, but because she'd want to walk into that room and look untouchable.
That was Arielle.
Fire hidden beneath marble.
He fastened the cufflinks, watching his own movements with an odd detachment. "A mistake," he murmured to the empty room. "You've invited temptation to dinner."
The intercom blinked softly. "Sir, your car will be ready at nineteen hundred hours," his driver's voice said.
"Understood."
Damian glanced once more at the skyline. Every light below him looked like a decision waiting to be made.
One year. That was the agreement.
But deep down, he already knew—contracts could end. History couldn't.
---
Arielle
At precisely seven, the car arrived—a black Bentley, understated yet commanding. She stepped inside, clutching her silver clutch like armor. The city lights blurred outside as the driver pulled into the night.
Somewhere between the heartbeat of tires against asphalt and the rhythm of her own nerves, Arielle realized something unsettling. She wasn't afraid of Damian Valen anymore. She was afraid of herself—of the way her pulse still reacted to his name.
The driver slowed to a stop outside the Grand Aurelia Hotel. Flashbulbs erupted. The world waited.
And when she stepped out, the night itself seemed to pause.
Xoxo Eloura 😘 😘 😘 😘 😍