The invitation to the Gallardo family's charity gala was exquisitely luxurious. The gilded family crest on the card shimmered with a subtle arrogance under the light. Aria held the thin card, her fingertips as cold as if she were holding not paper, but the chilling spine of a poisonous snake.
For the past three days, she had operated like a machine programmed for revenge, efficient and cold. She had postponed her language lessons, citing ill health. All the "caring" phone calls from Lucas, Sofia, and even her sister Clara in England were met with a voice that was weak and tired yet sweetly managed. She was the perfect picture of a slightly unwell fiancée in need of quiet rest.
Privately, she had worked almost without sleep. The process of forging "evidence" consumed an immense amount of her energy, every detail meticulously considered to ensure it would withstand initial scrutiny. She even used a brief visit from Lucas to "accidentally" browse his tablet, feigning a desire to find an old movie. This allowed her to quickly scan his email layout and common phrases, adding another layer of authenticity to her fabrications.
The USB drive, which contained the fake email screenshots and a "problematic materials procurement list," was carefully hidden inside an unassuming silver pendant. It was a cheap piece of jewelry she had bought the day before, just believable enough to pass for real.
The gala was held at a private club by the sea in Barcelona. Outside the massive glass walls, the Mediterranean flowed calmly in the night, its shimmering waters a serene contrast to the luxurious, bustling scene inside. The clinking of glasses and the rustle of fine gowns created a tableau of a lavish, dream-like feast.
Aria walked into the venue on Lucas's arm. She wore a conservative, well-fitting champagne-colored gown that was neither eye-catching nor out of place. It was perfect for her "quiet fiancée" persona. She wore light makeup that subtly emphasized the fatigue and melancholy in her eyes, a bonus from her sleepless nights, making her look like a timid, fragile housewife in need of care.
"Relax, my dear," Lucas whispered in her ear, his warm breath carrying the scent of cologne and a hint of tobacco. Her stomach turned. He looked complacent and self-satisfied, his hair immaculately slicked back, his expensive suit making him look every bit the man of importance. "Everyone here is important. Just smile."
Aria lowered her gaze and gave a soft, quiet "Mhm." Her fingers tightened slightly on his arm, not from tension, but to restrain the urge to pull away immediately. Her eyes appeared demurely to sweep the room, but in reality, they were a precise radar, quickly scanning and evaluating the environment. Sofia was a social butterfly in a fire-red V-neck dress, flitting between different men with a loud laugh. Clara was also there, in a pure white princess gown, sitting in a corner and accepting flattery from a few young people. Her eyes, however, kept drifting toward Lucas, with a hint of veiled possessiveness.
Good. All the actors were in place.
Her plan was simple. In the middle of the gala, when the atmosphere was at its peak, she would pretend to feel a little faint and go to the terrace for some air. In the hallway leading to the terrace, she would "accidentally" drop the pendant containing the USB drive. She had already scoped out her target: a slightly down-on-his-luck independent investigative journalist, known for digging up business scandals, who had also been invited, perhaps to show the Gallardo family's "inclusivity." He was standing right near the hallway talking to someone. At the same time, her pre-scheduled anonymous email would be sent to the inboxes of several major media outlets and competitors.
Everything seemed perfect.
The gala proceeded as planned. Speeches, toasts, insincere small talk, and meaningless conversations. Aria was a puppet on a string, maintaining a stiff smile and responding to the admiring or scrutinizing gazes from every corner.
The Unforeseen Gaze
Just as she prepared to slip away and execute her plan, an intense, suffocating presence suddenly enveloped her.
She whipped her head around.
In the shadows on the other side of the terrace stood a man. His tall, imposing figure was almost one with the night, with only the glowing tip of a cigar at his fingertips. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit and no tie, his demeanor cold and aloof.
Léon Delacroix.
What was he doing here? This kind of small local charity gala was not the kind of event that would attract a man of his stature.
His gaze, across the dim light and the sparse crowd, found her immediately. Those gray-green eyes, so deeply etched in her memory, were now sharply scrutinizing her. It was as if he saw right through her carefully constructed calm, straight into the inner turmoil and the hidden actions she had just taken.
How much had he seen?
Aria's blood seemed to freeze instantly. This variable had never been in her plan. A fear a thousand times stronger than what she felt facing Lucas and Sofia seized her.
Léon simply watched her, without expression, without a move. The smoke from his cigar blurred part of his face, making his gaze even more intimidating.
A few seconds later, he slightly turned his head and said something in a low voice to his assistant, Max, who had appeared beside him. His eyes, however, never left Aria.
Then, he put out his cigar, turned, and left the terrace without a backward glance, as if he had just passed by and happened to see a complete stranger.
Only after his figure had completely disappeared did Aria feel she could breathe again. Her back was soaked with cold sweat.
He had to have seen something. His all-knowing look made her feel utterly exposed.
But why didn't he expose her? Why did he just watch?
A profound sense of unease replaced the brief satisfaction of a successful plan. She had thought she would be safe once she escaped Barcelona and Lucas, but Léon Delacroix's unexpected gaze made her feel as though she had just grazed the edge of a far larger, more dangerous web.
With a trembling hand, she pressed the send button. The anonymous email, with her carefully crafted "bomb," was on its way.
The plan was in motion; there was no turning back.
But now, she had only one, even more urgent thought: she had to get out, and fast! Leave Barcelona, leave everyone who knew her! Léon Delacroix's gaze was more terrifying than the combined threat of Lucas and Sofia.
Paris was no longer a safe haven, but it was the only place she could think of, the only place she had to go next.
Time slipped by, each second a beat against Aria's tightly wound nerves. The champagne in her hand swayed slightly, reflecting the fragmented light of the crystal chandelier and the cold calculation hidden in her eyes. Lucas was deep in conversation with a man who looked like a government official. From a short distance away, Sofia gave her an encouraging yet subtly urging look, signaling for her to "fit in" more. Clara had also moved to Lucas's other side, interjecting seemingly innocent comments to cleverly draw some attention.
Now was the time.
Aria took a slight breath, raising a hand to her temple with a perfectly timed display of fatigue and discomfort. She gave Lucas's sleeve a gentle tug, her voice weak. "Lucas, I feel a little dizzy. I'd like to get some fresh air on the terrace."
Lucas's expression was briefly annoyed at the interruption, but he quickly replaced it with a mask of concern. "Do you want me to come with you, my dear?"
"No," Aria immediately shook her head, forcing a weak smile. "You stay busy. I'll be right back. It's just a little stuffy." She had to do this alone.
Lucas nodded without another word, his attention quickly returning to the conversation. Sofia started to follow them, but Aria preemptively shook her head at her and mouthed "I'm fine" before turning to walk toward the terrace as planned.
Her high heels made a soft, clear echo on the polished marble floor, mirroring the loud beat of her heart. The hallway was dimmer, with abstract modern art hanging on the walls. Her target, the journalist named Felipe Morales, was leaning against a wall sconce at the end of the hall, sipping whiskey alone and looking out of place.
Closer and closer. Five steps, four steps, three steps.
Her hand seemed to casually brush against her neck, her fingertips touching the cool silver pendant. Her heart rate surged, and blood pounded in her ears. This was it.
Yet, just as she prepared to feign a stumble and release the pendant, an intense, suffocating presence appeared without warning from behind and to the side of her.
It was a cold, piercing gaze that seemed to strip away all her masks and see straight into her soul.
Her body froze, her blood seeming to turn to ice. A shiver ran from her spine to the top of her head.
She turned her head slowly and stiffly.
In the shadows of the terrace entrance, a figure stood.
Léon Delacroix.
He was almost completely obscured by the dim light, only a tall, imposing silhouette visible. His shoulders were broad, his posture as straight as a pine tree. A cigar was held between his long fingers, its red glow flickering in the darkness like a watching eye. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit with no tie, and his shirt collar was casually unbuttoned. Compared to the carefully dressed peacocks inside, he appeared understated and dangerous, like a black panther lurking in the shadows.
What was he doing here? This kind of small local charity gala, filled with the newly rich, was not the kind of event that would draw a man of his stature.
And his gaze, piercing through the sparse crowd and the soft light, was locked directly on her. Those gray-green eyes, so deeply etched in her memory, were now sharply and dispassionately scrutinizing her. It was as if he saw through her feigned calm, through her hidden actions she was seconds away from executing, and even into the tidal wave of turmoil and burning hatred within her heart.
How much had he seen? Had he been here the whole time? Had he seen her feign illness, walk toward the journalist, and touch her pendant?
An immense, unprecedented fear seized Aria, a thousand times stronger than what she felt facing Lucas and Sofia. In front of this man, she felt like a butterfly pinned to an exhibition board, with nowhere to hide. The terror of her plan being exposed almost suffocated her.
Léon simply watched her, with no expression and no movement. The faint smoke from his cigar blurred part of his face, making his gaze even more intimidating and unreadable. Time seemed to stop.
The deadly silence of a few seconds stretched on for an eternity.
Finally, he turned his head slightly and said something in a low voice to his assistant, Max Bernard, who had silently appeared beside him like a shadow. His lips barely moved, and his voice was so low that Aria could not hear it at all. But Max immediately gave a slight nod, his gaze subtly brushing over Aria before he retreated back into the shadows.
Léon's eyes never left Aria.
Then, he made a simple gesture. He brought the cigar to his lips, took a deep last drag, and then elegantly extinguished the red tip against a nearby metal trash can. His movements were unhurried, with a cold detachment that suggested he was in control of everything.
After that, he gave Aria one last look. It was unreadable. Was it a warning? A judgment? Pure indifference? Or a hint of a faint, almost nonexistent curiosity?
There were no words, no signs. He turned and walked with long strides, leaving the hallway without a second thought and disappearing in the direction of the main hall, as if he had only happened to pass by and had glanced at a stranger who had captured his attention for a mere two seconds.
Only after his powerful, suffocating presence had completely disappeared did Aria feel she could breathe again. She sucked in a sharp gasp. Her back was soaked with cold sweat. She leaned against the cold wall, her fingertips trembling.
The journalist, Felipe, seemed to sense something was wrong and gave her a confused look.
Aria snapped back to her senses. No! The plan could not be stopped! Léon's appearance was a huge surprise, but he had not stopped her. Perhaps... perhaps he hadn't seen anything? Just a coincidence?
A powerful sense of luck and a do-or-die determination supported her. She could not hesitate any longer.
She acted on pure instinct, completing the intended movement. She feigned a slight stumble, let out a soft cry, and with a seemingly flustered flick of her hand, the silver pendant slipped away. It traced a tiny silver arc before landing with a quiet click right beside the reporter Felipe Morales's leather shoe.
"Oh! Lo siento!" Aria said immediately, her voice filled with a practiced panic and apology in Spanish. A flush spread across her face, half from genuine terror and half from her act.
Felipe was startled. He looked down at the pendant at his feet, then up at the beautiful, seemingly frail woman in front of him. He recognized her as Gallardo's fiancée. His chivalry made him immediately bend down to pick it up. "No pasa nada, señorita. Es suyo?" (It's nothing, miss. Is this yours?)
"Sí, gracias. Muchas gracias." Aria took the pendant, her fingers trembling for real this time. She clutched it tightly in her palm as if it were a precious item she had found again. "I. I think I need some air." She stumbled over her words in English, pointing toward the terrace. She almost ran outside, leaving the reporter holding his untouched drink and staring at her receding back, utterly bewildered.
The cold night wind instantly enveloped her, cooling her flushed cheeks and her sweat-soaked back. She leaned against the cold railing of the terrace, breathing deeply, her heart hammering as if it would burst from her chest. The Mediterranean below her was a silent, rising and falling mass of deep black, mirroring her mood.
Léon Delacroix. What did he mean?
The feeling of being completely seen yet not exposed was more terrifying than a direct confrontation. He was like a superior audience member, coldly watching the clown on stage perform without a word.
This feeling of being out of control was horrible.
With a trembling hand, she took her phone from her clutch. The screen lit up, showing the time. The anonymous email would be sent in less than ten minutes. The arrow had left the bow.
She gripped her phone tightly, her nails digging into her palm.
Regardless of what Léon had seen or thought, the plan was already in motion. She had to see it through.
She had thought she would be safe once she escaped Barcelona and Lucas, but Léon Delacroix's unexpected gaze cast a cold shadow that firmly enveloped her. It made her realize that she might have just grazed the edge of a far larger, more intricate, and more dangerous web, and that she, a moth bent on revenge, might have already caught the spider's attention.
The trip to Paris was no longer just an escape and a new beginning. It now carried an additional layer of inexplicable urgency and the chilling feeling of being locked into a new destiny.