The ride back to the penthouse was silent, save for the hum of Julian's electric car. Neither of them acknowledged the black sedan that had followed them for three blocks before vanishing into the city traffic.
Julian's grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. He wasn't just angry; he was calculated. When they reached the garage, he didn't open Elara's door immediately. He turned to her, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Who are they, Elara?" he asked, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet.
Elara picked at the silk of her new emerald dress. "It doesn't matter. They won't stop."
"It matters to me. They came into my gallery. They're following my car."
"You should have left me in the tunnel, Vance. I told you, everyone who chases the muse gets lost."
Julian smirked, a dark, arrogant tilt of his lips. "I don't get lost, Elara. I conquer. And right now, I'm conquering your fear."
He pulled a gold-embossed invitation from his pocket. "There's a gallery gala tonight. The city's elite, critics, investors—they'll all be there, looking to see if I've finally crashed and burned."
"And?" Elara raised an eyebrow.
"You're coming with me. But not as Elara Moon, the street musician. You're coming as my muse, my inspiration, a high-fashion enigma who doesn't speak. Let them wonder. Let them hunt for a phantom. While they stare at the woman in the silk dress, they won't be looking for the girl in the yellow cardigan."
Elara looked at him, realizing the depth of his obsession. He wasn't just protecting her; he was rewriting her story.
"Deception is an art form, Elara," Julian whispered, stepping out of the car. "Let's see if you can perform."