Chapter 4 – Playing the Part
"Elara, smile just a little. That's it. Hold Damian's arm—yes, perfect!"
Flash.
Click.
Flash.
The photographer's voice rang in her ears like background noise as Elara posed beside Damian in front of the Voss Foundation gala backdrop. The lights were blinding. The reporters ravenous.
She had arrived on the arm of the most untouchable man in New York, in a custom red silk gown that hugged her curves and a diamond necklace worth more than her old apartment complex.
To the world, she was now Mrs. Elara Voss—mysterious, glamorous, untouchable.
She hated it. And she loved it.
Damian, ever the master of image, stood beside her with a firm hand resting at the small of her back. He didn't smile—he didn't need to. His presence commanded attention. Dominance radiated from him like gravity.
And Elara? She had never looked so dangerous.
A week had passed since the contract was signed.
A week of interviews, press releases, and public appearances. The narrative had been shaped with brutal efficiency: Elara Quinn, once engaged to a real estate heir, had fallen in love with billionaire tech magnate Damian Voss. A whirlwind private romance. A secret wedding in the Maldives.
It was the kind of fantasy women devoured online.
And yet, none of it was real.
"I still don't understand why people eat this up," Elara murmured under her breath as they left the photo area and stepped into the ballroom.
"Because the world is addicted to fairy tales," Damian replied coolly, offering her a glass of champagne.
"And you're the cold prince in disguise?"
He raised a brow. "I'm the one who doesn't need disguises."
Fair.
The ballroom was a sea of elegance—high ceilings, golden chandeliers, polished marble floors, and women in gowns that shimmered like constellations. Elara spotted CEOs, celebrities, political figures, and heiresses she'd only seen in magazines. And all of them stared at her.
She could hear the whispers.
That's his wife?
I heard she left her fiancé at the altar.
Damian never dates, let alone marries. What's so special about her?
She's lucky. Or very smart.
"I'm going to get more champagne," she said through clenched teeth. "Alone."
Damian's hand tightened briefly on her arm before he let her go. "Stay within view."
She rolled her eyes and walked toward the bar. His protectiveness was suffocating—and slightly flattering.
The bartender handed her another glass, and she turned—only to come face to face with someone she hadn't expected to see again so soon.
"Liam," she said flatly.
Her ex-fiancé stood there, disheveled in a designer suit, his eyes wide. "Elara… what the hell is going on?"
"What does it look like?"
"You married him?"
"Don't act shocked. You left a vacancy at the altar, remember?"
"I didn't leave it!" he hissed. "You stormed out!"
"Because you were sleeping with my sister!" she snapped, her voice just loud enough to turn a few heads.
Liam's face turned red. "It was a mistake—"
"No, Liam. A mistake is forgetting to buy flowers. Sleeping with my sister? That was a choice."
He looked around, lowering his voice. "Are you really with Voss? This can't be real. You're not like these people."
Elara smiled tightly. "You're right. I'm better."
As she turned to walk away, Damian appeared beside her like a shadow. "Is this man bothering you?"
Liam's jaw tightened. "This is a joke. You think you're the hero? You're just another arrogant billionaire throwing money around to play husband."
Damian's expression didn't change. But something cold settled in his eyes.
"Elara," he said softly, "do you want me to remove him from the guest list permanently?"
She hesitated—then looked Liam dead in the eye. "No need. I already erased him from my life."
Then she took Damian's hand—her cue—and they walked back into the crowd like royalty.
Later that night, when the penthouse was dark and silent again, Elara stood by the window in her bare feet, sipping tea.
Damian appeared in the reflection behind her. No tie. Sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly tousled. Less like the CEO she knew and more like a man trying not to look tired.
"You handled him well," he said.
"I've had practice."
"You didn't flinch."
She turned to him. "I don't flinch for cowards."
He walked closer. "That's a rare trait. Don't lose it."
She looked up at him, heart strangely steady. "Why did you help me back there?"
"Because he disrespected what's mine."
Her lips parted slightly. "I'm not yours."
His voice lowered. "You are, Elara. For now."
The air between them crackled. She hated how close they were. Hated how her body responded—how her pulse jumped, how her breath caught.
"This is dangerous," she said.
"I know."
"What happens if we forget this is fake?"
Damian stepped back first. "Then one of us gets hurt."
And he turned away, leaving her with silence and shadows.