The invitation arrived sealed in black.
No sender.
No explanation.
Just a location, a time, and a dress code that screamed money and secrets.
Dominic read it once, then burned it in the fireplace.
"They want to see us," he said calmly.
Elara watched the paper curl into ash. "Who?"
"Everyone," he replied. "Investors. Rivals. People who smile while they sharpen knives."
"And Bianca," Elara said.
Dominic's eyes lifted. "Especially Bianca."
---
The ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and practiced laughter. Elara stepped out of the car, Dominic's hand resting lightly at her back—not possessive, not distant. Present.
Eyes turned. Whispers followed.
"She's younger than I expected."
"That's the wife?"
"She doesn't look dangerous."
Bianca did.
She stood across the room in a red dress, glass in hand, watching Elara with a smile that never reached her eyes.
"Remember," Dominic murmured near Elara's ear, "tonight we don't react. We observe."
Elara nodded. "And we don't drink anything we didn't see poured."
A ghost of a smile. "Good."
They moved through the crowd together. Elara noticed how Dominic subtly shifted—placing himself between her and certain men, steering conversations away from loaded questions, grounding her with small touches that said I'm here.
Then Evan appeared.
Her ex froze mid-step when he saw her.
"Elara," he said, stunned. "You look… well."
"Evan," she replied evenly.
Dominic's presence was immediate at her side. Not hostile. Just unmissable.
"I didn't know you'd be here," Evan continued, eyes flicking between them. "I'm working with the media group sponsoring tonight."
"Congratulations," Elara said.
Bianca drifted closer, timing perfect as always. "How nice," she purred. "Old friends. Reunions are my favorite."
Her hand brushed Evan's arm. Too familiar.
Dominic's gaze sharpened. "Careful," he said softly to Bianca. "You're crowding."
Bianca laughed. "Relax. I'm just being social."
Elara felt the tension coil—but she didn't step back.
"Bianca," she said, calm as glass, "enjoy the party. Somewhere else."
The smile slipped. Just a fraction.
Music swelled. Glasses clinked. The night pressed on.
Later, on the balcony, Dominic stood beside Elara as the city breathed below them.
"You handled that well," he said.
"I learned from you," she replied.
He studied her, something unreadable in his eyes. "You're changing."
"So are you."
A beat. Then footsteps.
Bianca again—this time holding a tray with two glasses.
"For peace," she said sweetly. "A truce."
Dominic didn't move.
Elara looked at the glasses. Clear. Innocent.
She smiled and took one—then quietly switched it with Bianca's as she leaned in to thank her.
"Truce," Elara echoed.
Bianca drank first.
Nothing happened. Of course not. Not yet.
But as Bianca turned away, Elara caught the flash in her eyes—the calculation, the anger at being outplayed.
Dominic leaned closer. "Did you just—"
"Yes," Elara whispered. "I did."
He exhaled, half warning, half pride. "Next time, tell me."
"There won't be a next time," she said softly. "She knows now."
Across the room, Bianca watched them—together, steady, untouchable—and for the first time, uncertainty crossed her face.
The masks hadn't fallen.
But they had cracked.