The Blackwood Foundation for Medical Advancement occupied the top three floors of a midtown skyscraper that gleamed like a surgical instrument in the afternoon sun. As the town car slid to the curb, Elara saw the crowd first—photographers clustered behind velvet ropes, their lenses like insect eyes waiting to devour her.
"Remember," Adrian said from beside her, not looking away from his phone. His voice was cold, professional, and entirely detached from the fact that they had just been married. "Smile. Don't speak unless spoken to. And for God's sake, don't touch the pearls."
Elara's hand, which had been drifting unconsciously to her throat, dropped to her lap. The pearls felt warm now, having absorbed the heat of her skin during the car ride. They no longer felt like a ghost's necklace. They felt like a collar—a gilded leash that tied her to the man beside her.
"Why are we here?" she asked, watching as a woman in a sharp blazer hurried toward their car.
"Photo opportunity. The foundation is announcing a new pediatric cancer wing. Your presence adds a… human touch." Adrian finally looked at her, his gaze sweeping over the simple black dress she'd changed into. "You look presentable."
It was the closest thing to a compliment he'd given her, yet it felt like being graded on a test she hadn't studied for. The car door opened, and Miranda, the PR woman with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, ushered them out. Flashbulbs erupted like miniature explosions.
Adrian offered Elara his hand—the first time he'd touched her voluntarily. His fingers were warm, his grip firm as he pulled her close. To the cameras, it looked like a protective, spousal gesture. To Elara, it felt like being steered toward a slaughterhouse.
"This is my wife, Elara," Adrian announced, his voice carrying the practiced charm of a man who owned the world. "We're delighted to be here today to support the foundation's incredible work."
"Mrs. Blackwood! How does it feel to marry into the family that sued yours?" a photographer shouted.
The question landed like a thrown brick. Elara felt Adrian's hand tighten on the small of her back—a warning, a command to stay composed. She forced the smile she'd practiced in the mirror. "We're focused on the future," she said, her voice hollow. "And on helping families facing medical crises, like the ones this foundation supports."
Inside, the auditorium was filled with the scent of money and disinfectant. A giant mock check for $5,000,000 stood on the stage. Elara watched a video of a young girl ringing the bell for her final chemo treatment, and her throat tightened. She thought of her mother, trapped in a sterile room, waiting for a bell she might never get to ring.
When Adrian spoke at the podium, he was eloquent and persuasive. He spoke of legacy and responsibility. He sounded like a good man. Elara watched him, feeling a confusing rush of anger and reluctant recognition of his power. He commanded the room not just with wealth, but with a presence that felt inevitable.
"A future my wife and I hope to see flourish," Adrian concluded, drawing every lens in the room toward her.
As the cameras swung her way, Elara felt the weight of the "Blackwood" name crushing the air out of her lungs. She was no longer Elara Vance, the daughter and student; she was a prop in Adrian's grand play of redemption. And as she looked into the flashing lights, she realized that in this world of polished marble and five-million-dollar checks, her soul was the only thing not for sale—yet.
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