The Stratton Gala was the event of the season.
Held at the Waldorf Astoria under a ceiling of gold leaf and Swarovski chandeliers, it was a night for billionaires to show off their wealth, for socialites to pretend they weren't watching each other, and for the media to whisper every scandal into the next day's headlines.
Arabella wore the sapphire necklace Sebastian gave her.
The one he'd chosen like a leash, like a contract she hadn't signed.
Her gown was floor-length navy silk, modest but tailored to her body. Her hair swept back in a low chignon, lips painted in a soft red.
She looked every inch the billionaire's wife.
But inside?
She was falling apart.
Her fingers trembled as she held her champagne glass. Every second ticked closer to the moment she dreaded.
Sebastian had warned her earlier that morning:
"Be gracious. Look supportive. No scenes. Or we both lose."
She had stared at him, eyes empty.
"Are you going to announce it tonight?"
"That depends on you," he'd replied. "Don't push me."
Now, standing beside him on the grand marble staircase as the press surged below, Arabella's mind was screaming.
Say something. Do something. Walk away.
But she didn't.
She smiled.
And that's when Juliette appeared.
Wearing a white silk gown that clung to her body like sin, Juliette slinked up the staircase and slid her arm through Sebastian's like it had always belonged there.
The cameras exploded.
Flashes. Gasps. The clicking of a thousand shutters.
Arabella froze.
Juliette leaned toward the microphone placed just before them and cooed, "We have a very special announcement tonight."
Sebastian didn't stop her.
Juliette smiled sweetly, resting her hand on her flat stomach.
"I'm expecting."
A shocked hush fell over the crowd.
Juliette gave a little laugh, as if the moment were just so emotional.
"And Sebastian and I are thrilled to share that we'll be starting our family together this year."
Arabella's throat closed.
No one noticed her anymore.
She was just… gone.
A shadow beside them.
A forgotten accessory.
Juliette turned to Sebastian, expecting him to speak, to confirm, to make it official.
But for the first time, he hesitated.
His jaw locked. His eyes flicked toward Arabella, just for a split second.
And in that split second… he looked almost afraid.
Arabella caught it. Felt it like a jolt.
Juliette squeezed his hand harder.
Sebastian cleared his throat. "Yes," he said quietly. "We're... happy."
But the crack was there.
Arabella saw it.
So did the press.
And it was all on camera.
Later That Night
Arabella locked herself in the guest suite, stripped out of the gown, and collapsed into bed without removing her makeup.
She stared at the ceiling.
Dry-eyed.
Numb.
Dead.
Then her phone buzzed.
Chloe:I saw the video. Please tell me you're done. Please tell me you're getting the hell out of that house.
Arabella didn't reply.
She turned over.
Her hand brushed something hard under the pillow.
She pulled it out... a sealed envelope with her name on it.
Her heart stilled.
It was from Sebastian.
She opened it with trembling hands.
Inside: A check.
Five million dollars.
And a note.
For discretion.
Let this be quiet.
No signature.
No apology.
No goodbye.
Just silence.
Just money.
The Next Morning
She packed again.
This time, she didn't cry.
She booked a room at The Lafayette, one of Manhattan's most exclusive hotels. Not because she wanted to hide in luxury, but because she wanted to feel invisible among the elite.
She checked in under her maiden name.
No one recognized her.
She was… free.
Sort of.
That Evening – Lafayette Hotel Bar
The bar was dim, polished, silent but for piano music.
Arabella sat at the end of the counter with a glass of scotch she didn't touch.
She wore no makeup. Just a cream sweater and black pants. Her hair was messy. She didn't care.
"Excuse me," a deep voice said.
She turned.
The man was tall, dark-haired, and dressed in an understated black suit. Power radiated off him...but not the flashy kind. It was quiet. Dangerous. Controlled.
"Are you waiting for someone?" he asked.
Arabella blinked. "No."
"Then you won't mind if I sit."
He didn't wait for permission.
He took the stool beside her and waved for the bartender.
"Whiskey. Neat," he said, then looked at her again. "Rough night?"
She gave a bitter smile. "Rough life."
The man studied her a moment. "You're not like the others."
"Others?"
"The women who come here. Too much perfume. Too much need. You look like you already got burned."
She looked away. "Something like that."
He extended a hand.
"Lucien Wolfe."
She frowned. "Should I know that name?"
"Most people do," he said calmly. "But I like that you don't."
He picked up his drink and clinked it against hers.
"To endings," he said.
Arabella hesitated.
Then clinked back. "To survival."