The air in the penthouse, normally as sterile and motionless as a museum, felt altered when the elevator doors slid open. It carried new scents: Earl Grey tea, burnt toast, and—strangely—something floral, tinged with metallic sharpness. Elara stepped out first, her mind still replaying Julian's infuriating yet effective "different kind of logic." Behind her, Julian leaned against the elevator wall, tie undone, a look of exhausted triumph pulling at his features. "Told you it would work," he said, gesturing toward the city below. "I think we just set a new record for fake celebrity couples. The accidental touch. A little whisper. Perfect." "It was effective," she admitted. The word felt foreign, heavy, as though conceding ground in a battle she had sworn to win. A cool, amused voice cut through the air. "Effective, my dear niece, is an understatement. It was a masterpiece of human manipulation. Though I suspect the credit belongs to the one who can actually feign emotion." Lydia Vance lounged on a pristine white sofa, a black leather jacket draped over her shoulders like a cape. Electric-blue hair framed her sharp face, and a silver eyebrow ring glinted as she lifted a porcelain teacup to her lips. She was a paradox come alive: punk rock edge wrapped around the mind of a patent-owning technocrat, and Elara's unofficial handler in all matters human. Julian stiffened, tugging at his tie like a schoolboy caught sneaking in after curfew. "Lydia," he said with forced brightness, "it's a pleasure to finally meet you." Her smile was slow, appraising, and far from reassuring. "Likewise, Superstar. I've heard plenty about you. Mostly from your brother Ethan, who is—and I quote—'losing his mind over this fiasco.' Music to my ears." She set her teacup down with deliberate care, then gestured for them to sit. "So. What now? The public has had a taste. They'll want more. They want to watch the genius of Vance Tech softened by the golden boy of Thorne Industries. They want a story. A real one." Elara straightened, ever the tactician. "The schedule is already prepared. Controlled appearances—" "Controlled?" Lydia scoffed, eyes flashing. "My dear, the public doesn't want control. They want authenticity. Mess. They want to see you bicker over his ridiculous lava lamp." Julian's stomach dropped. He had assumed Lydia was an ally, another strategist like Elara. But no—she was something else entirely: the director of their public romance, and she thrived on improvisation. Lydia turned her gaze on him, sharp and unyielding. "I've seen your social media. Read the puff pieces. The one about the show dogs? Adorable. But tell me, performer—what do you actually believe in, Julian Thorne? Beyond your family name. Beyond PR stunts." The question hit like a sucker punch. Julian opened his mouth, but no words came. No boardroom had ever asked him that. No reporter. No family member. Elara's hand moved almost on instinct. She reached across and touched his arm, steadying him, shielding him—though she didn't realize it herself. The gesture jolted them both, an unplanned spark in the fragile choreography of their alliance. Lydia's smirk widened, slow and satisfied. Her voice softened to a near purr. "See? Chaos. Isn't it beautiful?"
