The cameras arrived before dawn.
By noon, the Blackwood estate had been converted into a stage; lighting rigs disguised as décor, microphones hidden in floral arrangements, publicists pacing like surgeons before an operation.
Arielle watched it all from the dressing room mirror.
The dress Celeste selected was ivory. Intentional. Soft enough to soothe shareholders. Structured enough to signal value. The kind of dress that said chosen, not trapped.
She adjusted the cuff once. Calm was not an emotion. It was a discipline.
Lucien entered without knocking.
He wore charcoal gray. No tie. Approachability engineered to the millimeter. When his eyes met hers in the mirror, something shifted—not warmth, not desire. Awareness.
"You're late," she said.
"You're early," he replied. "That's worse."
She turned. "This ends the moment the cameras cut. Don't improvise."
"I never do."
"That's a lie," Arielle said. "You just improvise in advance."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face and vanished. "Smile when they ask about love. Laugh once. Keep it brief."
"And the ring?" she asked.
Lucien reached into his pocket and opened the velvet box.
The diamond caught the light with a vicious gleam.
"Now," he said.
"No," Arielle replied. "Onstage."
His jaw tightened. "This is not the time to assert—"
"This is exactly the time," she interrupted. "You want authenticity. This is how it looks."
Silence pressed between them.
Finally, Lucien snapped the box shut. "You have thirty seconds."
They walked out together.
Applause erupted on cue.
Reporters surged forward, voices overlapping, cameras flashing like controlled explosions.
Lucien placed a hand at Arielle's lower back. The gesture read possessive. Strategic. She allowed it—and adjusted her stance so it looked mutual.
"Mr. Blackwood," someone shouted. "Why the secrecy?"
"Miss Kingsley," another called. "How long have you been together?"
Lucien lifted a hand. The room quieted.
"Some things," he said smoothly, "are worth protecting."
He turned to Arielle.
Her cue.
She stepped forward, pulse steady, voice clear. "We met privately. We stayed private. Today is not about explanation, it's about intention."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Lucien glanced at her. A fraction too long.
"And the ring?" a reporter pressed.
Arielle looked at Lucien then, like really looked at him. Not the heir. Not the strategist. The man who believed leverage equaled control.
She extended her hand.
Lucien hesitated.
It was brief. Barely perceptible. But cameras caught everything.
He opened the box.
As he slid the ring onto her finger, Arielle leaned in just enough for him to hear.
"You blinked," she said softly.
His fingers stilled.
Applause exploded.
Flashbulbs detonated.
Lucien lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. The crowd melted.
But his voice, when he spoke under the noise, was low and exact. "Don't mistake visibility for power."
Arielle smiled for the cameras. "I don't," she replied. "I mistake control for it."
They posed. They smiled. They sold the illusion perfectly.
When it was over and the reporters dispersed, Lucien did not release her hand.
"Tonight," he said, "you attend the board dinner. No deviations."
Arielle glanced down at the ring heavy, flawless, symbolic.
"Then tonight," she said, "you learn what you actually bought."
Lucien's grip tightened.
The engagement was official.
The war had just been announced.