Elara's POV
The knock came again, sharper this time. "Miss? Mr. Conti is waiting."
Elara stared at the woman in the mirror. The blue dress was simple, elegant, and fit her perfectly. It made her look like someone else. Someone who belonged in a penthouse, who attended charity galas, who was engaged to a billionaire. She touched the fabric. It felt like money. It felt like a costume.
She took a deep breath and opened the door. A different woman in a black suit stood there, her face blank. "This way, please."
Elara followed her through the silent, sprawling penthouse. Everything was shades of gray and white. Cold. Perfect. No personal touches. No photos. No mess. It was like no one really lived here. It was a stage set.
They entered a dining area. A table that could seat twenty had only two places set at one end. Luca stood by the window, looking out at the morning city. He turned when she entered.
He was wearing another suit, this one dark gray. He looked rested, sharp, and completely in control. His eyes scanned her, head to toe. Not like a man looking at his fiancée. Like a director checking an actor's costume. "It fits," he said. Not a compliment. A statement of fact.
"Good morning," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Sit." He pulled out a chair for her. The gesture was smooth, practiced. Part of the act.
She sat. He pushed her chair in, then took his own seat across from her. A man in a white jacket appeared silently and poured coffee. He disappeared just as quietly.
Luca picked up his cup. We are attending the Winter Foundation Charity Gala tonight. It's at the museum. Black tie. You'll wear the emerald gown. A stylist will come at five to do your hair and makeup."
She stared at him. "Tonight? So soon?"
"The sooner we establish the narrative, the better." He took a sip of coffee. "You'll be introduced as my fiancée. You will smile. You will stay by my side. You will not wander off. You will not speak to anyone unless I introduce you. Do you understand?"
She nodded, her throat tight. The coffee in front of her smelled rich and expensive. She couldn't bring herself to drink it.
"Viktor will likely be there," he continued, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather. "He is a major donor. Do not look at him. Do not react if he approaches. If he speaks to you, you smile politely and say nothing. I will handle it."
Her heart began to race. Viktor. The man who wants to kidnap me. Hurt me. "What if he... what if he tries something?"
"My security will be present. He won't. It's a public event. He prefers darker corners." Luca's gaze was steady. "This is the performance. This is where we sell the story. Can you do that?"
She thought of the bakery. The deed, free and clear. Her parents' legacy is safe. She looked at his cold, confident face. He wasn't asking if she was scared. He was asking if she could act.
"Yes," she said, the word tasting bitter.
"Good." He picked up a newspaper. The conversation was over.
The stylist arrived at five. She was a whirlwind of energy, talking about contouring and highlights as she transformed Elara's simple ponytail into an intricate updo. The emerald gown was brought in on a velvet hanger. It was breathtaking. And heavy. It felt like armor.
When she looked in the mirror, she didn't recognize herself. The woman staring back was polished, sophisticated, and empty. A mannequin in a designer dress. This is the fiancée, she thought. This is who I have to be.
Luca met her in the foyer. He was in a tuxedo. He looked like a movie star, if movie stars had eyes that could freeze water. He looked at her, and for a second, his expression was unreadable. Then he offered his arm. "Remember. Stay close."
The ride to the museum was silent. Elara's stomach was a knot of nerves. She watched the city lights blur by. This is it. The first performance. Don't mess up.
The museum was a flood of light and sound. A red carpet led to the entrance. Cameras flashed. Reporters called out. Luca stepped out of the car first, then offered his hand to help her out. His touch was firm, impersonal. He pulled her close, his arm sliding around her waist. "Smile," he murmured into her ear.
She smiled. It felt brittle on her face.
They walked down the carpet. The questions came like bullets.
"Luca! Who's your date?"
"Conti! Is this the mystery woman?"
"Are you two an item?"
Luca paused, turning them slightly toward the cameras. His grip on her waist tightened. "This," he said, his voice clear and warm for the cameras, "is Elara. My fiancée."
The word, said so publicly, felt like a slap. The cameras went wild. Elara kept smiling, her cheeks aching. She leaned into him, playing her part. He looked down at her, and for the cameras, his gaze was tender. She saw the calculation behind it.
Inside, the gala was a whirlwind of crystal and champagne. Luca guided her through the crowd, introducing her with that same warm, false tone. "My fiancée, Elara." Over and over. She nodded, smiled, and said, "Pleasure to meet you." Her voice sounded far away.
She felt eyes on her. Judging. Assessing. Who was this nobody who had caught Luca Conti? She saw curiosity, jealousy, disdain. She was an imposter, and they all knew it.
Then, she felt a different kind of gaze. A cold, focused pressure. She glanced up, following the feeling.
Across the room, near a massive ice sculpture, stood a man with silver hair. He was watching them. Not Luca. Her. Their eyes met. He smiled. It was a thin, cruel curve of his lips. He raised his champagne glass in a slow, deliberate toast, aimed directly at her.
Viktor.
Fear shot through her, cold and sharp. Her smile faltered. Luca's hand tightened on her waist, a warning. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "I told you not to look."
She forced her gaze away, her heart hammering. She could still feel Viktor's eyes on her, crawling over her skin like insects.
The rest of the night was a blur of false smiles and whispered warnings. Luca never left her side. He was the perfect, attentive fiancé. He brought her champagne, which she didn't drink. He introduced her to people whose names she immediately forgot. He kept a firm, possessive hand on her at all times.
She was drowning in the performance, in the lies, in the fear. The beautiful gown felt like a straitjacket. The sparkling lights felt like interrogation lamps.
Finally, after what felt like years, Luca guided her toward the exit. "Time to go," he said, his public smile never slipping.
They were almost to the door when a smooth, oily voice stopped them.
"Conti. Leaving so soon?"
Luca turned, his body shifting subtly to place himself slightly in front of Elara. "Viktor. I didn't see you."
Viktor Volkov stood before them, his silver hair gleaming. His eyes, a pale, watery blue, slid from Luca to Elara. They lingered on her face, then traveled down the emerald gown and back up. The appraisal was vulgar. "And this must be the lovely fiancée. Elara, was it?"
He extended a hand. Elara froze. Luca's instruction echoed: Say nothing. She looked at the hand, then at Luca's impassive profile.
Viktor's smile widened. He dropped his hand. "Shy. I like that." His eyes locked on hers. "A rare quality in this city. Treasure it, Conti. Fragile things break so easily."
The threat hung in the air, sweetened by his smile.
Luca's arm around her waist became an iron bar. "We have another engagement. Excuse us." He didn't wait for a response. He turned her and walked away, his steps swift and sure.
They didn't speak in the car. Elara stared out the window, trembling. She could still feel Viktor's eyes. She could still smell his expensive cologne, like decay wrapped in money.
They arrived back at the penthouse. The elevator ride was silent. The doors opened.
Luca walked into the living room, his movements stiff with a controlled rage she hadn't seen before. He went to the bar and poured a drink, his back to her.
Elara stood in the middle of the vast, cold room, still in her emerald armor, feeling more exposed than ever. The performance was over, but the terror remained.
She had been seen. By the world. By the enemy.
And the enemy had just promised to break her.