The following evening, Elise found herself stepping out of a limousine into the blaze of flashing cameras. The air was thick with noise—reporters shouting her name, camera shutters snapping like gunfire, onlookers gasping as if witnessing a royal parade.
Her heels clicked against the marble steps of the grand Moreau Foundation Hall, but each step felt like a descent into enemy territory. Vincent walked beside her, perfectly composed, his hand lightly resting on her lower back. To the world, it was a gesture of intimacy. To Elise, it was a declaration of control.
"Smile," he murmured through clenched teeth, his lips barely moving.
Her spine stiffened. "I'd rather choke."
His hand pressed just a little firmer, steering her toward the golden doors. "Then choke beautifully. They're watching."
Elise lifted her chin, summoning a smile as sharp as glass. If this was a performance, she would not stumble.
---
Inside, the gala was a storm of glittering gowns, tailored suits, and champagne-fueled whispers. The elite of the city—politicians, CEOs, heirs, and vultures—circled like predators, their eyes darting between her and Vincent as if tasting the scandal.
"Elise, darling, you look radiant!" A woman with diamond earrings approached, her voice dripping with curiosity more than warmth. "Tell us, how does it feel to tame the untamable Vincent Moreau?"
Elise's smile didn't falter, though her blood boiled. "Oh, I wouldn't say tamed," she replied smoothly. "Caged animals still bite, don't they?"
A ripple of laughter spread through the cluster, but Vincent's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Elise caught it—and savored it. One point for her.
---
The evening dragged on, each introduction another battlefield. Vincent played his part with terrifying ease, his charm polished, his smile lethal. Elise, however, refused to fade into the shadow of his dominance. Every question, every glance, every insinuation was an opportunity—and she wielded her wit like a sword.
But beneath the glitter and applause, tension simmered. Each time Vincent leaned close to whisper instructions—"Don't touch the glass with both hands" or "Keep your gaze steady"—she wanted to turn and strike him.
Yet when their eyes met across the room, something shifted. The arrogance in his stare wavered, replaced by something heavier… almost weary. Elise blinked, and it was gone.
What was that?
---
Later, as the orchestra swelled and couples began to dance, Elise found herself swept into Vincent's arms. The spotlight followed them like a predator as they moved across the floor. Her hand rested stiffly in his, her other pressed lightly against his shoulder, every muscle taut with defiance.
"You're trembling," he murmured, low enough for only her to hear.
"It's called disgust."
He chuckled, the sound rich and infuriating. "You're an excellent liar, Elise. But tonight, even you can't afford cracks."
His words stung—not because of the arrogance, but because deep down she knew he was right. One slip, one falter, and the sharks would tear her apart. So she forced herself to glide, her movements seamless, her smile dazzling, until the onlookers erupted in applause.
As the music ended, Vincent leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. "See? We make a perfect performance."
Elise pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. "Performances end. And when the curtain falls, the truth remains."
---
The night wore on, and exhaustion pressed heavy on Elise's shoulders. Seeking escape, she slipped away from the ballroom and found herself in a quiet corridor lined with portraits of the Moreau dynasty. Generations of men stared down at her with cold eyes, each frame whispering the same story: power, power, power.
She exhaled sharply, her chest tight with rage. What am I doing here?
A sound behind her froze her in place. She turned and found Vincent standing in the shadows, his tie loosened, the polished mask of control slightly cracked. His gaze wasn't arrogant now—it was haunted.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"Do you ever tire of it?" Elise asked quietly, surprising herself.
Vincent's jaw shifted. "Of what?"
"This charade. The endless war for power."
His silence was telling. Then, in a voice softer than she'd ever heard, he said, "It's not a war when surrender isn't an option."
Elise studied him, searching for the man beneath the tyrant. For the first time, she glimpsed not the predator—but the prisoner.
The moment was fragile, almost intimate. But then he straightened, the mask sliding back into place. "Careful, Elise. Curiosity is dangerous. You might not like the answers you find."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her with a storm inside her chest.
---
Hours later, alone in her room, Elise lay awake. She replayed his words, his fleeting vulnerability, the strange weight in his eyes. She hated herself for wondering what chains bound him, what secrets lay buried beneath his arrogance.
"No," she whispered into the darkness. "I won't fall for this. Not him. Not ever."
But the wind rattled against the glass again, as if mocking her vow. As if promising that the storm between them had only just begun.
---
Cliffhanger for Chapter 8: Elise will soon discover that her contract with Vincent doesn't just bind her in marriage—it ties her to secrets so dangerous that walking away might not be an option at all.