At 6:45 p.m., the Mayfair Room glittered under cascading chandeliers, each light refracting against champagne flutes and diamond cuffs. The kind of room where secrets were currency and power was measured in glances.
Lucian Draven stood near the grand piano, sculpted jaw set in its usual stillness. He wore tailored navy like it had been sewn from midnight, the cut emphasizing shoulders built to carry more than business. His face—flawless in its severity—held the cold elegance of a man used to silence and submission.
But beneath the ice… anticipation flickered in his eyes.
And then she arrived.
Elara Voss stood at the entrance, still as glass. Her dress was pure black silk, molded to her body like sin. Her skin glowed under the soft lights—warm brown, smooth like polished bronze. Her high cheekbones caught the glow, lips painted a shade between wine and war. Hair swept back in a loose updo, allowing two curled strands to kiss her jaw. She didn't walk into the room.
She claimed it.
Lucian turned slowly. The sight of her stole half a breath—just enough for his eyes to narrow, just slightly, like he was recalculating everything he knew about control.
"You're late," he said when she reached him.
A slow, ironic smile curved her mouth. "I'm exactly on time."
He stared at her like she was a challenge wrapped in silk. She met his gaze with the same force—chin tilted, eyes daring. Neither blinked.
Lucian finally extended his hand.
Elara took it.
Their fingers touched.
Electric.
And just like that, the performance began.
---
At the Dinner table...
"Mr. Draven," a silver-haired board member began, "you've been elusive for years. Now you're engaged? How did that happen?"
Elara turned her head, lips curving like she'd practiced this lie a thousand times. "We met at a gallery. I spilled coffee on him. He looked ready to file a lawsuit."
Lucian smirked—barely. "I was considering it. But she was... distracting."
Elara's eyes flashed. She leaned in, her voice smooth. "I cleaned the coffee. He offered to buy the art piece I ruined. I declined."
"Modest," Lucian added, his voice softer now, more intimate. "And stubborn."
" But she is worth it"
The table laughed. But Elara didn't miss the faint twitch in Lucian's jaw when the word stubborn escaped. She studied him beneath her lashes. He was too good at this.
Because he wasn't acting.
Neither was she.
Rooftop terrace, later…
The city blinked beneath them like a million secrets. Elara stood at the glass barrier, the wind brushing her gown against her legs.
Lucian leaned on the railing beside her, tie loosened just slightly, the sharp angles of his face now softened by the city's glow. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes? They betrayed him. They always did. He was staring at her like she was an unfamiliar language he both resented and needed to understand.
"You lie well," he said.
"So do you."
She turned to face him fully. Up close, he was devastatingly handsome. Not just in the curated sense—his beauty was dark, aristocratic, a mixture of discipline and something barely restrained.
Elara's own face betrayed nothing. But her eyes—wide, dark, shimmering—held pain he hadn't earned the right to know. Yet.
"You're not afraid of me," Lucian said.
She tilted her head. "And you're not used to that."
He stepped closer. Just one breath apart now.
Elara's heart thudded once.
"You're beautiful," he said simply.
She blinked, momentarily thrown. "So are snakes."
His lips curved. A full smile never came. "Careful, Elara. You might end up liking this."
"I might end up burning it down."
And just like that, they returned to silence.
But the war had started.
.
Inside, the gala throbbed with envy in designer gowns and tuxedos.
From the far end of the room, Marissa Vale watched them. Her manicured fingers clutched a crystal flute too tightly, the champagne inside trembling as much as the smile on her lips. She had history with Lucian—short-lived, insignificant, but in circles like this, it was enough to birth entitlement.
"Who the hell is she?" she murmured to a friend.
"His fiancée, apparently," the woman whispered. "They say he met her at an art gallery."
"Please," Marissa sneered. "That woman couldn't paint her own face. She's nothing like the kind of women Lucian's known for."
And that was the thing—Elara wasn't.
She wasn't polished in the plastic way, she wasn't bred to be agreeable. She looked like art, but spoke like she had thorns behind her teeth. And that made her dangerous.
---
Later that night – Lucian's private elevator
Elara stood beside him, arms folded, her silence louder than her earlier sarcasm. The moment the doors slid shut, she finally said, "They hate me already."
Lucian pressed a button, the air between them thick with expensive cologne and unfinished thoughts. "They're just confused."
She turned to him, one brow lifted. "About?"
"Why someone like me would choose someone like you."
He said it not to insult—but to provoke.
And she didn't disappoint.
Elara stepped in front of him, close enough for her voice to lower into a whisper. "Tell me, Lucian. Why did you?"
A pause.
A heartbeat.
Lucian's jaw tightened as his gaze swept across her face—the full lips, the defiant chin, the guarded eyes. He didn't answer.
Not because he didn't know.
But because the truth scared even him.
Instead, the elevator opened into the penthouse—marble floors, soft lighting, glass walls framing a glittering skyline.
Elara stepped inside, cool and collected, hiding her nervous flutter beneath every stride. "Nice cage," she said.
"It's a home," he corrected, slowly removing his jacket.
"For one person maybe."
Lucian paused, eyes on her as he laid the jacket down. "Now it's for two."
Elara's breath caught, and she hated that it did. She turned away too quickly, walking toward the bar.
"You want a drink?" she called, opening a bottle of red like she lived there.
"No," Lucian said. "But I'll take a truth."
She froze.
Just a second.
Then, without turning, she poured two glasses. "You'll find I'm not much of a storyteller."
"Good. I'm not interested in fiction."
He took the glass from her hand, his fingers brushing hers—intentionally this time. She didn't pull away.
"Then ask your question," she said, voice barely steady.
Lucian held her gaze. "Why did you agree to this contract?"
The room was still.
Elara sipped, then smiled—a hollow thing.
"Because lies pay better than honesty in this world."
She moved past him, her reflection lingering in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Behind her, Lucian watched. Not just her body, but the wall she'd put up, the ache she tried to bury under silk and sarcasm.
They were both running from something.
And they had just started running into each other.