The other woman was everything Elara was supposed to be: polished, predatory, and perfectly aware of the nature of her "marriage."
The gala ballroom glittered like a weaponized chandelier, crystal sconces dripping light onto marble floors, champagne flutes chiming like tiny bells of war. Elara stood at Damien's side in the navy silk gown he'd chosen, the diamond necklace heavy against her collarbone, its teardrop pendant resting in the hollow of her throat like a noose of ice. The choker beneath it was hidden, but she felt every diamond bite. Her smile was a porcelain mask, perfected in the mirror under the stylist's merciless gaze. Damien's hand rested at the small of her back, thumb tracing idle circles that felt more like a brand than affection.
They moved through the crowd like royalty, Damien nodding at tycoons, Elara murmuring practiced pleasantries. Every eye tracked them, the new Mrs. Vance, the assistant-turned-Cinderella, the fairytale the tabloids couldn't stop devouring. But the whispers weren't about love. They were about power. About the heir. About the empire.
Then the air shifted.
Isabella Thornton glided toward them like a shark scenting blood. She was a vision in crimson satin, the dress cut so low it defied gravity, diamonds flashing at her ears and throat like warning signals. Her blonde hair was swept into an elegant chignon, lips painted the same shade as her gown, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Damien's ex-lover. The woman who'd warmed his bed before Elara had ever typed a single memo. The woman who knew exactly what this marriage was.
"Damien, darling," Isabella purred, her voice honey over broken glass. She air-kissed his cheeks, lingering just long enough to press her body against his, her perfume, jasmine and something darker, invading Elara's senses. "You've been hiding your little… acquisition."
Damien's smile was lazy, lethal. "Isabella. Always a pleasure."
Isabella's gaze slid to Elara, slow and dissecting. "And this must be the bride." She extended a manicured hand, nails blood-red. "Elara, isn't it? The assistant."
The word dripped with venom. Elara took the hand, her own steady despite the tremor in her chest. "Mrs. Vance now," she corrected, voice soft but edged.
Isabella's laugh was a tinkling blade. "Of course. How quaint. From typing memos to typing heirs. Quite the promotion."
The crowd around them tittered, a ripple of amusement. Damien's hand pressed harder against Elara's spine, a silent command: smile. She did, teeth clenched behind her lips. Isabella leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried to every ear in range.
"Tell me, darling, does he make you call him sir in the boardroom too? Or is that reserved for the bedroom?"
Heat flooded Elara's face, humiliation scalding. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Damien chuckled, low and dark, his amusement a knife twist. He was letting this happen. Testing her. Watching to see if she'd break.
Isabella sipped her champagne, eyes glittering. "Oh, don't look so stricken. We all know how these arrangements work. A girl from… where was it? Some dreary little manufacturing town? Climbs into bed with the king and thinks she's queen. But silk doesn't make a sow's ear a purse, does it?"
The insult landed like a slap. Elara's fingers curled into fists, nails biting her palms. She wanted to scream, to hurl the champagne flute at Isabella's perfect face, to rip the necklace from her throat and throw it at Damien's feet. But his hand was a vice now, pinning her in place. Perform, it said. Obey.
Damien's voice cut through the haze, smooth as velvet. "Careful, Isabella. Envy is a poor accessory."
Isabella's smile sharpened. "Envy? Oh, darling, I'm just concerned. For the child, you understand. One does hope the… stock is up to standard."
The crowd gasped, a collective inhale. Elara's vision tunneled, rage and shame colliding. She took a step forward, ready to, God, she didn't know, claw Isabella's eyes out, when Isabella's hand "slipped."
The red wine arced like blood, splashing across Elara's white gown in a violent bloom. The silk drank it greedily, the stain spreading like a wound. Elara gasped, the cold liquid shocking against her skin, the scent of merlot thick and cloying.
"Oh!" Isabella exclaimed, hand to her lips in mock horror. "How clumsy of me. White is so unforgiving, isn't it?"
The room spun. Laughter rippled, cruel and bright. Elara stood frozen, wine dripping from her hem, the necklace suddenly a noose. Damien moved then, finally, his hand sliding from her back to her arm, grip bruising.
But he didn't comfort her.
He leaned close to Isabella, his smirk a blade, voice just loud enough for Elara to hear: "Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Isabella. But then, you always were too eager for a ring I never offered you."
Isabella's face flickered, triumph, fury, something darker, before smoothing into ice. Damien turned, steering Elara away, his grip unyielding. The crowd parted like water, whispers trailing them like smoke.
Elara stumbled, the wine-soaked gown clinging to her legs, the necklace burning against her skin. Damien's stride was relentless, dragging her through a side door into a private corridor, the noise of the gala fading behind them.
He released her abruptly, and she nearly fell. The corridor was dim, lined with gilded mirrors that reflected her ruin: wine-stained silk, mascara smudged, eyes wild with humiliation. Damien loomed over her, expression unreadable.
"You let her," Elara whispered, voice cracking. "You let her humiliate me."
His head tilted, eyes glittering. "You wanted to fight back. You didn't. That's on you."
She laughed, a broken, hysterical sound. "You wanted me to scratch her eyes out in front of your board?"
"I wanted to see if you'd try." He stepped closer, crowding her against the wall. "You're my wife, Elara. Not my assistant. Act like it."
Her chest heaved, tears threatening. "I'm your prisoner."
His hand rose, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek, the touch almost gentle. "And prisoners learn their place. Or they break."
He stepped back, adjusting his cufflinks. "Clean yourself up. We're not done."
He turned and walked away, leaving her trembling in the corridor, wine dripping from her gown, the necklace a chain around her neck. She was a pawn in a game she didn't understand, and Damien had just moved her across the board with ruthless precision.