The Grand Ballroom of the Vane Plaza was a cathedral of glass and gold. Tonight, it was filled with the most powerful people in the city, all of them holding champagne flutes and sharpened knives, waiting to see if Silas Vane had finally developed a heart—or a weakness.
"Stay close," Silas murmured. He adjusted his cufflinks, but Elara noticed the slight hesitation in his fingers.
The lights were dimmed for the atmosphere, which was a nightmare for Silas. To everyone else, the room was romantic; to him, it was a shifting sea of gray shadows and lethal obstacles.
"I'm right here," Elara whispered. She stepped into his side, sliding her hand through the crook of his arm. "Your ten o'clock—there's a low marble pedestal with a statue. Step left in three paces."
Silas adjusted his stride seamlessly. To any observer, they looked like a couple in perfect, intimate sync.
"You're good at this," Silas remarked, his voice barely audible over the string quartet.
"I spent years restoring paintings with microscopic cracks, Silas. I'm trained to see what others miss."
"Then don't miss the woman in the emerald gown approaching us at two o'clock," Silas warned, his jaw tightening. "That's Lady Victoria. My grandmother's choice for my bride. She's... persistent."
Elara felt a spike of something she shouldn't have—jealousy. She ignored it and stood taller. As Victoria approached, looking like a literal queen in jewels, Elara didn't wait to be introduced.
"You must be Victoria," Elara said with a warm, disarming smile, extending her hand. "Silas has told me so much about your... family's history with the Vanes."
Victoria's smile was thin. "And he's told me absolutely nothing about you, darling. It's almost as if you appeared out of thin air." She turned her gaze to Silas. "Silas, dear, you look... distracted. Are you feeling quite well? Your eyes seem a bit unfocused."
Elara felt Silas's arm turn to stone beneath her hand. Victoria was a shark; she smelled the blood in the water.
"He's not distracted, Victoria," Elara interrupted, leaning her head against Silas's shoulder. "He's just exhausted. We stayed up quite late last night discussing the restoration of the West Wing. You know how Silas gets when he's passionate about something."
She felt Silas look down at her. He couldn't see the details of her face, but he could feel the warmth of her breath.
"Indeed," Silas said, his voice dropping into a register that made Elara's skin prickle. "My passion tends to be... all-consuming. If you'll excuse us, Victoria, I believe the orchestra is starting our song."
He led Elara toward the dance floor before Victoria could respond.
"I don't dance," Silas hissed as they reached the center of the floor. "The lights, the movement—I'll lose my balance."
"You won't," Elara said, taking his hand and placing it on her waist. She put her other hand on his shoulder, closing the gap between them until there was no room for doubt. "Follow the sound of my voice. I'm going to lead, but I'll make it look like you are. Just trust me."
As the waltz began, Elara moved with a fluidity she didn't know she possessed. She whispered directions into his ear under the guise of sweet nothings.
"Turn now... step back... a slight dip..."
To the crowd, Silas Vane was sweeping his fiancée across the floor in a display of raw, masculine grace. But in the center of that circle, it was Elara holding him up. She was the anchor in his darkening world.
Silas pulled her closer, his face buried in the crook of her neck. "Why are you doing this, Elara? You have the eight million. You could just do the bare minimum."
"Because," she whispered, her heart hammering against his chest. "No one should have to disappear into the dark alone."
For a moment, the fake marriage, the debt, and the board of directors vanished. There was only the music and the man holding her as if she were the only thing he could still see.
Then, the music stopped.
The lights flashed—a celebratory signal—and Silas flinched, his grip on her hand tightening painfully.
"The flashes," he rasped, his eyes snapping shut. "Elara, I can't—"
"I've got you," she said firmly. She turned him away from the photographers, shielding his face with her own body. "Marcus is watching. Walk toward the balcony. Five steps. Straight ahead."
They made it to the shadows of the balcony just as Marcus stepped into the light, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Silas leaned against the railing, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he waited for his vision to stabilize.
"That was too close," Silas said, his voice trembling with a rare flash of fear.
"We made it," Elara said, reaching up to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Silas caught her wrist. He didn't let go. Even in the dim light, his gaze was intense, burning with a fire that had nothing to do with his illness.
"You're a dangerous woman, Elara Vance," he whispered.
"Why?"
"Because you're making me want to see a future that isn't written in a contract."