The dress arrived an hour before the car.
It wasn't dramatic. That would have been too obvious, too easy to dismiss. Instead, it was restrained in a way that felt intentional. Clean lines. Fabric that moved when she breathed. A color chosen not for her preference, but for how it would photograph under artificial light.
Ivara stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary.
She looked composed. Expensive. Finished.
She did not look like someone who had signed a contract that quietly rearranged her life.
Elaine adjusted the sleeve with a practiced touch. "The event will be tightly managed," she said. "Media presence is limited but influential. You'll remain beside Mr. Voss at all times."
"At all times," Ivara repeated.
"Yes."
"Where exactly are we going?"
Elaine hesitated, then answered. "The Meridian Arbitration Gala."
Ivara's eyes sharpened. "That's not a soft launch."
"No," Elaine agreed. "It's a declaration."
That settled uneasily in her chest.
The car ride was quiet. Calder sat across from her, not beside her. Space without comfort. He reviewed something on his phone, expression unreadable, posture relaxed in a way that suggested he'd done this a thousand times.
"You didn't mention a gala," Ivara said.
"You didn't ask," he replied without looking up.
"I assumed my first public appearance wouldn't involve a room full of people who write policy for sport."
"This room decides who gets buried quietly and who survives scandal," he said. "It's efficient."
She studied him. "You're using me."
"Yes."
The bluntness still caught her off guard.
The venue glowed when they arrived. Light spilled across marble steps. The air vibrated with recognition the moment Calder stepped out of the car. Cameras shifted direction. Conversations paused.
He didn't rush. He never rushed.
Calder offered his arm without looking at her.
A choice. Not a command.
Ivara took it.
The cameras reacted instantly. Flash after flash. Calder's grip was firm but measured, his body angled just enough to claim without spectacle. He leaned slightly toward her, close enough to signal intimacy without violating the line she'd drawn.
"Smile," he murmured, low and controlled.
She did.
Inside, the noise softened into a curated conversation. Laughter is placed carefully—interest sharpened by calculation. People approached Calder with practiced familiarity, then looked at her with something colder.
Assessment.
"This must be her," someone said as they passed.
Not who. What.
Calder introduced her once, clearly, without adornment. "My wife."
The word followed her through the room like a shadow.
She felt it in the way bodies angled toward them. In the way conversations lowered when Calder drew near. In the sudden recalibration of attention, as if her presence had shifted an invisible balance.
She wasn't a decoration.
She was evidence.
A woman approached them near the bar, smile tight and precise. "We were surprised," she said lightly. "You've always been so… private."
Calder's hand adjusted on Ivara's arm. Not tightening. Anchoring.
"Timing matters," he replied.
The woman's gaze flicked to Ivara, sharp with curiosity. "And how are you finding married life?"
Ivara answered before Calder could. "Efficient."
The woman laughed, uncertain whether she was supposed to. Calder didn't correct her.
They moved on.
"You didn't need to answer," Calder said quietly.
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
"Because silence invites interpretation."
He glanced at her, slow and assessing. "You're learning."
They stopped near the balcony overlooking the city. Lights stretched below them, distant and unreal. For a moment, the noise blurred.
"This is the part where people think they know me," Ivara said.
"They don't."
"They'll try."
"Yes."
"And you're fine with that."
"I control the narrative," Calder said. "Not curiosity."
She exhaled. "You're remarkably calm for a man who just introduced a wife no one knew existed."
"This wasn't sudden," he said. "It was inevitable."
She turned to him. "Was I always part of the plan?"
Calder didn't answer immediately.
That silence told her more than words.
A photographer called out. Calder adjusted their position instinctively, angling her toward the light. His fingers rested just below her elbow. Not intimate. Not distant.
Exact.
The shutter clicked.
For one dangerous second, she felt it. The illusion of belonging. The ease of standing beside someone who owned the room.
It frightened her more than the contract ever had.
When the event ended, relief came sharp and hollow.
Back in the car, Ivara leaned her head against the glass. The city slid past, indifferent.
"You did well," Calder said.
"I performed."
"Yes."
"Is that all I am tonight?"
"For them," he said. "Not for me."
She turned. "And for you?"
He met her gaze, unreadable. "Proof."
The word landed heavy and final.
The tower rose ahead of them, dark and waiting.
Inside the elevator, silence closed in again.
"This changes things," Ivara said.
Calder nodded once. "It does."
She didn't ask how.
Because she already knew.
The public now believed in the marriage.
And, she believed, she was learning was a kind of lock.