The applause echoed long after the spotlight faded.
Elena stood on the ballroom stage, her hand still wrapped in Damien's. To anyone watching, they looked like the picture of devotion—she, radiant and surprised; he, steady and proud. It was theater at its finest, and they were the stars of the show.
Only Elena knew her pulse was a drumbeat of panic.
They descended the stairs slowly, cameras snapping with machine-gun rhythm. Every smile felt like a mask. Every compliment is like a test she might fail.
"I didn't know I'd be announced tonight," she hissed under her breath once they reached the ballroom floor.
"I wanted to set the narrative," Damien said, voice low. "It's harder to question what's already been declared."
"Right. Declare, and they believe."
He looked at her, amused. "You're learning fast."
"You should've warned me."
"If I had, you would've ever thought about it. This way, your surprise looked genuine."
She glared. "Because it was."
He leaned in. "And it worked."
She wanted to hate how effortlessly charming he could be. How he knew exactly what expression to wear, how to turn every moment into an advantage. But what scared her more was that he wasn't wrong—her shock had read perfectly. Every camera had captured her looking like a woman caught in the rush of love.
They mingled through the crowd. Damien made introductions—board members, CEOs, international investors. Elena smiled, nodded, played the gracious fiancée. She noticed the subtle glances: appraising, curious, some outright dismissive. She held her own, letting their judgment bounce off the shield of silk and diamonds Damien had draped around her.
But beneath it all, a slow, uneasy question bloomed: How long could she keep this up?
---
An hour in, she excused herself to find a moment of quiet—and air.
She stepped onto the balcony that overlooked Central Park, the city sparkling beneath her like a tray of scattered diamonds. The winter chill kissed her bare shoulders, but she didn't mind. For the first time all evening, no one was watching.
Until someone was.
"Elena Cruz."
The voice was smooth. Familiar.
She turned—and froze.
He stood in the shadow of the archway, tall and confident, with eyes like green glass and a smile sharp enough to cut silk.
"Adrian?" she breathed.
Adrian Blackwell.
Ex-boyfriend.
First heartbreak.
The man who had ghosted her halfway through senior year with nothing more than a voicemail and a trail of unanswered texts.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked, voice low but taut.
He stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "I should ask you the same. Engaged to Damien Vale? I nearly choked on my drink."
"How do you even know him?"
"We ran in similar circles before I left Manhattan. I still do, occasionally."
Of course. Adrian had always been ambitious, always hungry for access. That he would find his way into Damien's world didn't surprise her. What did was the timing.
"You're not here by accident," she said quietly.
"No," he admitted. "When I saw the engagement headline, I had to see it with my own eyes."
She crossed her arms. "And?"
He studied her. "You don't love him."
"Not that it's your business," she said, "but maybe I do."
His smile was pitiful. "Come on, Cruz. I know you. You don't fake things well."
Her pulse quickened. "I suggest you forget everything you think you know about me."
He stepped closer. Too close.
"Tell me the truth," he said. "What's he paying you?"
Her breath caught.
He smiled. "That's what I thought."
"Back off, Adrian."
"I could," he said, shrugging. "Or I could leak this little fairytale to someone interested. Might be worth something, don't you think?"
"You wouldn't—"
"I might," he interrupted smoothly. "Unless, of course, you give me a reason not to."
She stared at him, fury building under her skin.
"You always were good at leverage," she spat. "Still playing chess with people's lives?"
"You always were better as a queen than a pawn," he said with a wink.
She turned and walked back inside before she slapped him.
---
She found Damien standing by the bar, deep in conversation with a woman who looked like she belonged on the cover of Forbes. When he spotted Elena, his expression shifted immediately—eyes narrowing, posture straightening.
He excused himself and strode toward her.
"What happened?"
She took a steadying breath. "We have a problem."
His eyes sharpened. "Tell me."
"Adrian Blackwell."
His jaw flexed. "The Blackwell Fund?"
"I don't know. He used to be a student when I was a senior. We dated. He vanished. And now he's here—asking questions. About us. About me."
Damien didn't react visibly. But something in the air shifted.
"I can handle him," he said.
"No," she said firmly. "I can. This is my mistake. I let him get too close. But I'm not going to let him ruin this."
"You think he will?"
She nodded. "He smells blood. And I gave him a reason to sniff."
Damien's gaze turned thoughtful. "Then we make him believe the story."
"How?"
"We play the next scene better than the last."
Before she could ask what that meant, he took her hand and led her to the center of the ballroom.
The crowd parted instinctively, like the sea yielding to a storm.
Damien turned to face her, both hands now holding hers.
"Elena," he said, voice rich and low, "may I have this dance?"
It wasn't in the script. She hadn't been briefed. But she nodded anyway.
He pulled her close, his hand firm at her waist, and guided her into the slow rhythm of the music that had begun to swell through the hall.
Her heart thudded.
People watched. Cameras clicked.
But in that moment, she couldn't focus on anything but the man whose gaze was fixed so intently on hers.
"This is dangerous," she whispered.
"What is?"
"Making it look this real."
Damien leaned in, his lips brushing her ear as they turned slowly on the polished floor.
"I'm not making it look like anything," he murmured. "This part... doesn't feel fake."
She swallowed hard.
And for the first time, she forgot the contract.
She forgot Adrian.
She forgot everything except the man holding her like he already knew how the story would end.