The black car rolled to a stop outside the glass entrance of the Clarendon Hotel, its front lit like a palace against the night sky. Paparazzi swarmed in clusters along the velvet ropes, cameras flashing like a thousand starlights. Elena's hands trembled on her lap as the car idled.
"Breathe," Alexander said beside her, his voice calm and steady.
She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze in the dim light. He looked composed and flawless in his tailored black suit. Not a single crease, not a single ounce of hesitation. As though this—being worshipped and hunted under the cameras—was his natural element.
"I can't do this," she whispered, her pulse hammering.
"You can." His hand reached across the space, covering hers firmly. "All you need to do is stand beside me. Nothing else."
Her throat went dry, but she nodded faintly.
The driver opened Alexander's door, and in one smooth motion, he stepped out. A roar erupted; flashes, voices calling his name, questions thrown into the night. He extended his hand back into the car.
Elena froze. Then, with a shaky breath, she placed her hand in his.
The moment her heels touched the carpet, the noise surged, deafening. Who is she? Is that Alexander King's date? Look at her! Questions flew like darts, cameras blinding her from every angle.
Alexander didn't flinch. His hand tightened around hers, guiding her forward, his posture straight, unbothered. He leaned slightly toward her, his voice low enough only she could hear.
"Keep your chin up."
So she did. She lifted her chin, let her arm rest against his, and forced her legs to move. Step by step, through the storm.
Inside, the gala hall glittered with chandeliers and diamonds, a sea of gowns and tuxedos, the air thick with perfume and whispered gossip. Heads turned as they entered, conversations pausing mid-sentence.
Elena felt their eyes on her, judging, measuring and curious.
And then she saw them.
Across the room, seated at a table near the stage, Adrian leaned back casually in his chair, a glass of champagne in his hand. Beside him, Vivian's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Showtime," Alexander murmured.
They approached their reserved table. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over fire. When they sat, Elena's heart still refused to slow. She tried to steady her breathing, clutching her clutch too tightly.
"You're doing fine," Alex said softly, his hand brushing against hers under the table for only a second, but it was enough to send a ripple through her.
From across the room, Vivian lifted her glass toward Elena in mock salute. Her eyes glittered with something sharp. Elena's stomach knotted.
Adrian leaned in to whisper something to Vivian, and she laughed lightly, tossing her hair. But her gaze never left Elena.
The whispers around the hall grew louder. Who is she? Another conquest? The mistress?
Elena forced herself not to shrink under it. She remembered Alex's words—chin up—and met Vivian's gaze head-on.
Alexander noticed. A small smile tugged at his lips, though his tone stayed even. " You're doing good."
The evening dragged forward, speeches, laughter, the clinking of glasses but Elena felt as though she were sitting on a battlefield, every eye watching her.
When the host announced a round of dancing, Alexander rose smoothly and extended his hand.
"Dance with me," he said.
Her heart leapt. "Alexander, I don't—"
"Trust me."
She let him lead her to the dance floor. The music swelled, soft and elegant. His hand rested lightly at her waist, guiding her through the steps with effortless control. For the first time all night, the noise of the crowd dimmed.
"You're nervous," he murmured.
"Because everyone is staring at me," she whispered back.
"No," he said, eyes locking on hers. "They're staring at us."
And in that moment, as the music wrapped around them, Elena realized just how dangerous this game had become. Because somewhere deep inside, she wasn't sure she was pretending anymore.
Across the room, Adrian's jaw tightened. Vivian's glass cracked slightly in her grip.