Julian's penthouse was not a home; it was a monument to wealth and isolation. Seventy-fifth floor, overlooking the entire glittering grid of the city, cold marble floors, and an unnervingly silent housekeeper who treated Elara like a ghost.
Elara had spent less than an hour in her new, temporary, master suite. Enough time to stash the expensive crocodile bag—and the embedded listening device—in the back of her walk-in closet, and to read the cryptic, final message Marcus had left on the bedside tablet: "The Vanderford Charity Gala. Be ready at 7:00 PM. No deviations."
It was 6:30 PM.
A small, velvet box sat on the vanity. Inside, nestled on black silk, was an engagement ring that felt less like a promise and more like a shackle—a massive emerald-cut diamond flanked by twin sapphires. She knew the market value of the rock was more than the entire million dollars she was being paid. It was obscene.
As she slid the ring onto her finger, she felt a familiar ache of grief mixed with icy determination. She wasn't just wearing his ring; she was wearing her father's revenge.
When Julian appeared at her door exactly at 7:00 PM, he was wearing a tuxedo that looked molded to his formidable physique. He didn't compliment her dress—a shimmering, fitted sheath of silver silk Marcus had chosen—he simply checked her over, his gaze sharp and purely professional.
"The rules are unchanged," he instructed, his voice low. "Tonight, you are my devoted fiancée. Smile when introduced. Nod when I speak. Keep your answers brief and shallow. This is not a social outing, Ella. This is a crucial networking function."
He paused, his eyes falling to the massive diamond on her finger. "You understand this ring stays on, at all times, until the contract is nullified?"
"I understand, Julian," she replied, meeting his gaze. She tried to convey the necessary demureness, but a flicker of the true Elara must have shown through, because his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
He offered her his arm, and they descended into the dizzying, bright lights of the city.
The Vanderford Gala was held in the atrium of the city's Museum of Art. It was a dizzying, loud echo chamber of power, filled with the very people who had watched Julian seize Thorne Media.
Elara had grown up in these rooms, knew the backhanded compliments and the political microaggressions, but now she had to navigate them as Julian's accessory.
The air was thick with perfume, champagne, and quiet malice. As Julian led her through the crowd, she kept her head high, maintaining a serene, almost detached expression. She was not the desperate girl anymore; she was the woman on Julian Vance's arm.
They were immediately intercepted by a portly, aggressively cheerful man named Senator Harrington, a man Julian needed support from for an upcoming legal battle.
"Julian! My boy, congratulations!" the Senator boomed, shaking Julian's hand, his eyes lingering on Elara. "A smart move, settling down. Beautiful girl. Very... compliant."
The word hit Elara like a slap. Before she could instinctively tighten her smile, Julian squeezed her waist subtly.
"Ella is a gift, Senator," Julian said smoothly, the implied possessiveness chilling. "She handles the personal affairs so I can focus on the business."
Elara forced a tiny, adoring laugh, lifting her free hand to touch Julian's sleeve. This performance is revolting.
But then, across the crowded room, she saw her.
Cassidy Vance.
Julian's older sister—a sharp, intimidating attorney who was rumored to hate Julian almost as much as Elara did. Cassidy was known for her brilliant legal mind and her intense loyalty to her own principles, often openly opposing Julian's ruthless corporate maneuvers.
Cassidy was alone, leaning against a pillar, watching them. Her expression was utterly devoid of the polite falsity everyone else wore. It was pure, distilled suspicion.
Julian, sensing the shift in the air, quickly finished his conversation with the Senator and steered Elara away.
"Stay close," he muttered into her ear, his breath warm against her temple. "Do not engage with anyone I haven't vetted."
He led her straight toward Cassidy. Elara's heart pounded, realizing this was her chance—a potential ally, or a massive enemy.
"Cassidy," Julian greeted his sister, his tone instantly cooler. "I want you to meet my fiancée, Ella Thorne."
Cassidy stepped forward, her expensive gown rustling softly. She didn't extend her hand. Instead, her sharp, dark eyes fixed on Elara, reading her like a deposition.
"Ella," Cassidy said, her voice low and intelligent. "It's a pleasure. Though I'm curious. You're an event planner, Julian tells me? It's quite a dramatic career shift to become his wife in under 48 hours."
The implied accusation hung heavy in the air. This was not a social greeting. This was an interrogation.
Elara knew she couldn't rely on Julian's scripted lines. She needed to give a performance that would satisfy Cassidy's skepticism without exposing her own depth.
"It wasn't a long courtship, no," Elara admitted, offering a shy, slightly vulnerable look—but holding Cassidy's gaze. "But when Julian Vance sets his mind on something, resistance is... futile." She lifted her chin slightly. "It's a whirlwind, but I'm learning to keep up."
The answer was deliberately vague, implying Julian was the aggressive pursuer. Cassidy didn't smile, but a calculating glint appeared in her eyes. It was a sign she hadn't dismissed Elara, but was now intrigued.
Before Cassidy could press the issue, a sudden commotion erupted near the entrance. A waiter had tripped, sending a tray of red wine soaring. It missed Julian, but the splash caught a nearby society matron's dress.
Julian, seizing the moment, wrapped his arm tighter around Elara, pulling her protectively against his side. "Excuse us, Cassidy. We'll speak later."
As they moved away, Elara glanced back. Cassidy Vance was still watching her, a thoughtful, dangerous look on her face.
Elara had just earned her first enemy... and maybe her first, fragile point of interest from a potential ally. The ring felt heavier than ever.
The penthouse apartment was massive and silent when they finally returned. The air, heavy with the scent of expensive champagne and rain from the city outside, crackled with unspoken animosity.
Julian didn't release Elara's waist until they were inside the foyer, the steel door clicking shut behind them. When he did, the immediate loss of contact felt like a plummeting drop.
He stepped away, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket with a casual movement that revealed the breadth of his shoulders. His cold exterior was back, sharper than ever.
"Your performance tonight was acceptable, Ella," he stated, walking toward the sprawling, unlit living room. "You were compliant. You handled my sister with minimal damage."
"Thank you, Julian," Elara replied, taking a moment to breathe, the rush of the performance draining away to exhaustion. She was still wearing the silver gown and the diamond ring felt like a lead weight.
"However, there is a fundamental flaw in your approach," he continued, stopping before the glass wall that overlooked the night sky. "In public, we are a picture of devotion. That devotion needs to be consistent."
Elara frowned. "I was told I could have my own suite. The contract guarantees separation."
He turned, the shadows playing across the sharp angles of his face, making him look predatory. "The contract guarantees separation in bed. It does not guarantee separation in behavior. The staff, Ella, are always watching. Marcus, the housekeeper, the security detail. They are my eyes and ears. If there is a flicker of coldness, of indifference, the rumor mill will begin. And that will compromise the Sterling merger."
He took three slow steps toward her, eliminating the distance until they were only inches apart. Elara instinctively braced herself, refusing to take a step back.
"Starting now," Julian dictated, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that was dangerously intimate. "In this apartment, behind closed doors, you will act as a woman who is genuinely enchanted by her fiancé. Small, affectionate gestures. A touch here. A lingering look there. Practice your devotion, Ella."
He reached out, his long fingers trailing a searing path from her collarbone down to the silver fabric over her breast, settling just above her heart.
Elara's breath hitched. This was not in the contract. This was a deliberate challenge to her composure. Her vengeance felt suddenly overshadowed by a frantic, unwanted adrenaline.
"You're testing me," she said, her voice barely a thread.
"I am securing my investment," he countered, his thumb moving slowly against the fragile skin near her collarbone. "Show me, Ella. Show me how devoted you are."
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and Elara knew—with terrifying certainty—that he was going to kiss her. Not out of desire, but out of calculated control. To test her reaction, to claim dominance.
In that split second, the true Elara broke through the meek veneer. She wasn't the desperate event planner; she was the woman who once commanded boardrooms. She wasn't just going to react—she was going to act.
As Julian leaned in, his shadow enveloping her, Elara's hand shot up. She didn't push him away. Instead, she gently placed her palm flat against his chest, right over his heart—a surprisingly intimate gesture that was both a block and a counter-move.
"Don't," she breathed, her eyes blazing with a challenge that belied her soft tone. "Not like this. Not for practice. If you want a convincing performance, Julian, you'll need to earn it."
Her counter-move was unexpected. It implied that she was the one with the boundaries, that he was the one who needed to step up to her standards. It was the complete opposite of the submissive wife he thought he had purchased.
Julian froze. His gaze snapped back up to hers, his dark eyes suddenly intense, searching for the source of this unexpected defiance. He hadn't just bought a compliant doll; he had bought a woman with a dangerous spark.
A long, fraught moment passed between them, silent except for the hammering of Elara's own heart.
Finally, a slow, predatory smirk curled the corner of his mouth. "Interesting," he murmured, his voice laced with grudging approval. He took his hand away and stepped back, breaking the dangerous spell.
"Very well, Ella. Lesson learned. You are dismissed. Don't be late for breakfast. And leave the ring on."
Elara watched him turn and stride down the hall toward his own wing of the penthouse. She didn't move until she heard the faint click of a door closing.
She finally allowed herself to collapse onto the nearest chaise lounge, her entire body shaking. She had risked everything—her payment, her access, and her revenge—just to maintain her self-respect.
As she peeled off the hated diamond ring and slipped it into the velvet box, her gaze fell on the expensive crocodile handbag she'd placed discreetly on a high shelf.
You want devotion, Julian? I'll give you a devotion to your destruction.