The evening breeze nipped lightly at Melisa's skin as they stepped outside. Cool, calm, and far more emotionally stable than anyone attending tonight's party.
The driver stood like a statue beside the sleek black car, polished so well it probably reflected regrets. He reached for the door, only to be stopped by Leonard's slight nod.
Without a word, Leonard stepped forward and opened the car door himself, like a proper gentleman—if proper gentlemen came with resting deadpan face and unresolved emotional tension.
Melisa raised an eyebrow, then climbed in gracefully, smoothing down her navy-blue dress. She'd chosen it with surgical precision: simple, elegant, with just enough silk to whisper "I don't belong here, but I'll survive anyway."
Leonard followed, taking the seat beside her like he was positioning himself for a business merger. His gaze slid to the window, as if the passing trees held all the answers he never asked.
A soft laugh slipped past her lips.
Leonard flinched. Slightly. His ears turned the shade of mild embarrassment, and he glanced at her—quick, like a reflex—then looked away even faster.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. Not the suffocating kind, though. More like… an oddly breathable one. Comfortable. Or maybe they were both too emotionally exhausted to pretend otherwise.
The driver peeked at them through the mirror. According to the maids, this couple was colder than a divorce lawyer's handshake. But tonight? They looked like the warm, awkward type who might accidentally fall in love just to spite everyone.
The car rolled to a stop. The driver, having learned from past trauma, didn't move. Leonard stepped out and opened the door for Melisa, closing it gently once she was out.
"What a gentleman," she murmured with a wry smile.
Leonard didn't reply, but his eyes flicked toward her, unreadable. He didn't smile, but his gaze softened like velvet pressed against stone.
Melisa looked away. She didn't know what to do with that look. What if he meant it? What if he didn't? Either way, it was dangerous.
After all, people with emotions were just waiting to be used—by Olivia, by society, by whoever decided to weaponize kindness next.
Without a word, Leonard offered his right arm.
She blinked.
Was this an act?
Apparently not, because his expression didn't shift. The gesture was quiet and steady—an invitation, not an obligation.
Melisa placed her hand on his arm, fingers brushing fabric. His body heat bled through the layers, stable and real. Not the kind of warmth that demanded attention—just the kind that said, I'll walk beside you. That's all.
---
They presented the invitation card. The guard nodded and let them in.
Inside, the banquet hall dripped gold. Literally. Chandeliers poured light like molten honey. Music danced through the air like it belonged to another century. And the floral arrangements probably cost more than most college degrees.
Melisa barely noticed. Her eyes scanned the entrance. Not late. Not early. Just right enough to be noticed but not discussed.
Except, of course, people noticed anyway.
Because gossip was free and everyone at these things was poor in spirit.
A sharp-eyed middle-aged man detached himself from a circle of suits and walked toward them.
"Mr. Soveir, a pleasure," he greeted with a respectful nod, then turned to Melisa. "And this must be your wife. Mrs. Soveir, welcome."
"Thank you," Melisa replied, tone neutral, polite. The kind of polite that says I know exactly where I stand, and no, I don't need your approval.
Leonard gave a firm handshake. "It's been a while. Impressive event."
Mr. Shou smiled, pleased. "Only the best for my guests. Please, enjoy yourselves."
Which, in rich-people language, meant smile, pretend you're not judging each other, and drink until it feels normal.
Leonard led her further in. Subtle glances followed them—measured, layered. Some curious. Some dismissive. Some laced with rumors older than their marriage.
Melisa squared her shoulders.
Leonard noticed the shift immediately. Her grip had tightened. He patted her hand lightly. "Just relax. It's only a party."
"I should probably mingle with the influential ladies," she muttered.
Leonard's voice stayed calm. "Only if you want to. You're not obligated."
How annoyingly reasonable.
Moments later, Leonard was surrounded by familiar faces. CEOs, investors, former classmates with inflated egos and inherited companies. They nodded at Melisa politely when required. She responded in kind.
She wasn't lost here. Just… temporarily misplaced.
As she sipped her drink, a cluster of women—draped in designer desperation—approached. Their smiles were sweet. Their eyes were scanners.
Polite greetings were exchanged. Names dropped. Brands worshipped. Someone mentioned an exclusive designer launch. Another commented on Melisa's clutch.
By the third compliment, Melisa realized they weren't trying to tear her down—they were actually trying to include her.
She adjusted easily, letting them believe she was just another rich man's new wife with taste and manners. It was easier than explaining the truth.
Then—
"Sis."
One word.
Melisa froze.
That voice could ruin any party. Any day. Any life.
She turned.
And of course, Olivia stood there. Glass in hand. Lip glossed. Eyes watery enough to suggest either heartbreak or manipulative hydration.
Because how could she forget?
The Everharts would've received an invitation too.
Let the real party begin.