The dress the stylists had chosen was "Vane Power Red"—a silk sheath that fit Elara like a second skin. It was elegant, expensive, and felt like a suit of armor.
"Chin up," Silas muttered as they stepped out of the elevator into the penthouse restaurant of the Vane Building. He didn't look at her, but he reached down and laced his fingers through hers. His grip was firm, his palm warm. "Your hands are cold. Stop shaking."
"I'm trying," Elara whispered back, leaning into him. "It's hard to play the doting fiancée when my 'fiancé' has the bedside manner of a glacier."
"Glaciers are stable. People trust stability."
They reached a private table at the back, where four men and one woman sat in charcoal suits, looking like a jury awaiting a hanging. At the head of the table sat a man who looked like a younger, more polished version of Silas.
Marcus Vane.
Unlike Silas's cold intensity, Marcus radiated a predatory charm. He rose, a wide smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.
"So," Marcus purred, his gaze sweeping over Elara with the clinical precision of a man appraising cattle. "The mystery woman who finally tamed the Great Vulture. Silas, cousin, you kept her well-hidden. I was beginning to think you'd invented her."
"Elara values her privacy," Silas said, pulling out a chair for her. As she sat, he leaned down and pressed a lingering, deliberate kiss to her temple. The smell of his cologne—sandalwood and steel—briefly anchored her. "Something you've never understood, Marcus."
"Oh, I understand value," Marcus said, sitting back and swirling a glass of scotch. "I also understand timing. Quite a coincidence, isn't it? The marriage clause is triggered, and suddenly, a beautiful restorer from a bankrupt studio appears on your arm just weeks before the deadline?"
The table went silent. The Board members exchanged looks. This was the trap.
Elara felt the weight of Silas's hand on her shoulder. It was a warning. Don't break.
"It wasn't a coincidence, Mr. Vane," Elara said, her voice steadier than she felt. She looked Marcus dead in the eye, using the same focus she used when retouching a centuries-old painting. "Silas and I met months ago at the Met. He was looking at a damaged Caravaggio. Most people see the beauty; Silas saw the cracks. He was the only person who understood that the cracks are what make the history worth saving."
She covered Silas's hand with hers, looking up at him with a gaze she hoped looked like adoration.
"He didn't want a trophy," she added, her voice softening for effect. "He wanted someone who knew how to put things back together."
One of the older Board members cleared his throat, looking impressed. Silas's grip on her shoulder tightened—not in a warning, but in something that felt almost like... approval.
"A romantic," Marcus laughed, though the sound was sharp. "Tell me then, Elara. If you're so close, surely you know about Silas's little... condition? The reason he hasn't let a woman stay in that fortress of his for more than a few hours?"
Silas's body went rigid. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Marcus," Silas said, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "That's enough."
"I'm just curious," Marcus continued, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Does she know why the master bedroom has no art on the walls, Silas? Or did you tell her that lie, too?"
Elara felt the tension radiating off Silas. He was a man prepared for a fight, but Marcus had hit a nerve that left him momentarily paralyzed.
Elara didn't know the truth, but she knew how to protect a masterpiece.
"He didn't have to tell me," Elara said, standing up and reaching for her wine glass. She looked at Marcus with a pitying smile. "As a restorer, I know that you don't hang art in a room that's being renovated. Silas is clearing space for our future, Marcus. I'm sorry if your own life is too cluttered to understand that."
The silence that followed was deafening. Marcus's smile flickered and died.
"Lunch is over," Silas announced, his voice like snapping ice.
He didn't wait for a response. He gripped Elara's arm and led her out of the restaurant. They didn't speak until they were back in the privacy of the elevator.
The doors closed, and Silas suddenly pinned her against the mirrored wall. He didn't look angry. He looked... hunted.
"How did you know?" he breathed, his face inches from hers.
"I didn't," Elara whispered, her heart racing. "I was lying. I was protecting the contract."
Silas stared at her, his eyes searching hers for a long, agonizing moment. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed her—not for the cameras, and not for the Board. It was a hard, desperate kiss that tasted of wine and secrets.
When he pulled away, his voice was a broken rasp. "Don't ever do that again."
"Do what?"
"Make me think you actually care."