e timing, as though he had orchestrated every detail himself. Isla stared at the garment

attending red-carpet events. The fabric was sleek and form-fitting, designe

uation pressing down on her. A gala. Tonight. She was expected to step

erful man she had ever encountered. She could almost hear the w

never thought she would be part of a world where money, power, and appearance were everything. But her

air, usually worn in a simple ponytail or messy bun, was styled into soft waves that cascaded down her back. She applied makeup with a light hand, enough to enhance he

wing down the nerves that made her stomach churn. A few deep breaths, and she tried

ust as she was abou

was

perfectly. He looked as though he had just stepped out of a magazine spread: tall, imposing, his jawline sharp and defined. The c

, his voice giving noth

the unease that seemed to coil tighter around her chest. Adequate? S

o smile. "I'll take

g any further comments. "L

how exposed she felt. Lucien was quiet beside her, his every movement calculated and composed. He was a

ering chandeliers and towering flower arrangements. The rich hum of conversation, the clink of champagne glasses

xpected to play. She couldn't help but feel small in this world, so different from the dimly lit apartments and dingy restaurants she was used to.

yes flicking toward them with curio

refully curated space they occupied. Isla, on the other hand, couldn't help but notice how all eyes seemed to l

o several of the attendees, each handshake cold and efficient. He made no effort to engage in small talk with anyone, leav

o, sh

tions were superficial, but they were easy enough to navigate. She could pretend to be wha

had built. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something deeper than the cold façade he wore. For just a moment, it was as though he wasn't the billi

nease through her. What was it abo

thoughts, and she looked up to find him studying her.

"Yes. Just getting u

to a faint, knowing smi

e of validation, even if she knew it meant nothing. He didn't care about

g stretched on, the hours slipping by in a blur of conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. And all the w

d she found herself asking the question she ha

to this? To pretend to be some

mple: money. She

ly reason? Or was there so

stood up, offering his hand to her. "It's

e of what he meant

ression unreadable. "The night

evening settled on her shoulders. It had been ju

wondered: Could she keep pretending for much longer? Could she keep p

g she didn't feel something: a spark, a connec