AMARA'S POV
The mirror stares back at me — merciless, perfect, cold.
Silver fabric hugs my body like liquid moonlight, catching every flicker of the chandelier above. The jewelry he chose glitters against my skin, each diamond whispering a story of power that isn't mine.
I look like her.
The woman he wants the world to see.
Not me.
Lily's voice echoes in my head from last night's call:
"Show them who you are, Amara. Don't let his world swallow you."
So I straighten my shoulders, paint confidence over the cracks in my heart, and step into the elevator.
Alexander is waiting by the car downstairs.
Sharp suit. Black tie. The kind of man who makes silence feel like a command.
When his eyes sweep over me, something flickers — quick, unreadable — before his expression hardens again.
"You're on time," he says.
"You sound surprised."
He opens the door for me but doesn't reply. Typical.
The drive to the gala is silent — just city lights blurring past the tinted windows, and the soft hum of his watch ticking louder than the tension between us.
When we arrive, cameras flash like lightning. The red carpet stretches before us, endless, merciless. Reporters shout his name, not mine. Always his.
He offers his arm.
For the cameras, I take it.
His grip is firm — too firm — a message disguised as etiquette.
We walk through the chaos together, two perfect strangers bound by the illusion of love.
His lips curve faintly as someone yells, "Mr. and Mrs. Voss!"
That tiny, dangerous smirk says it all: He owns this moment.
Inside, everything screams excess — crystal chandeliers, gold-trimmed tables, champagne like liquid stars. Power walks here in human form. Laughter hides behind deals. And money doesn't talk — it dictates.
I stand beside him, smiling, pretending.
Everywhere I look, eyes follow me.
Some curious.
Some envious.
And some sharp enough to wound.
Then she appears.
Victoria Hayes.
In crimson silk, smile like a blade, walking straight toward us.
"Alexander," she purrs. "You didn't tell me your wife would be joining tonight."
Alexander's jaw tenses. "She's my wife, Victoria. Where else would she be?"
I fight the urge to smirk.
"Oh, of course," she says sweetly, her gaze sweeping over me. "You look… stunning, Amara. That dress — I remember seeing it in Paris last fall, right? Alexander, you do have exquisite taste."
"Always have," he replies smoothly. But his tone — it's not for her. It's for me. A reminder.
I sip my champagne slowly, meeting Victoria's gaze. "Funny," I murmur, "I don't recall seeing you there."
Her smile falters. "I wasn't in Paris."
"Exactly." I take another sip. "So maybe don't assume next time."
Alexander chokes slightly — a sound between a cough and a suppressed laugh. He hides it well, but I catch it. For once, I've surprised him.
Victoria's eyes narrow. "Excuse me," she says tightly, before turning on her heel.
"Was that necessary?" he mutters under his breath.
"Yes," I whisper. "Very."
He studies me for a long moment, eyes tracing the edge of my face like he's trying to solve a riddle. "You're dangerous when you're like this."
"Then maybe you should've thought twice before caging me."
Something shifts in his gaze — irritation, maybe admiration — it's hard to tell.
But before he can reply, a tall man approaches, extending his hand to me.
"Mrs. Voss, isn't it? Ethan Reeve. I've heard quite a lot about you."
He's charming. Too charming. And when he takes my hand, his thumb brushes my skin — subtle, but enough.
Alexander's expression freezes.
"Reeve," he says smoothly, but his tone drops a degree colder. "I didn't realize you were still in town."
Ethan smiles easily. "Just arrived. You've done well for yourself, Alex. Beautiful wife, thriving empire…"
"Careful," Alexander says softly, "flattery makes you predictable."
Their handshake is firm — a power play wrapped in civility.
But Ethan's attention is still on me. "Mrs. Voss, perhaps later, you can tell me what it's like working for your husband. Must be… fascinating."
I smile politely. "Exhausting, actually."
For a second, the corner of Alexander's mouth twitches — the ghost of a smirk — before he hides it again.
But when Ethan excuses himself, I can feel the storm brewing beside me.
He leans close, voice low enough that only I can hear.
"Don't flirt with men you don't understand."
I turn to him, smiling sweetly. "Then maybe you should teach me what kind I'm married to."
Our eyes lock — heat and fury colliding, static crackling between us.
He straightens, mask slipping back on. "Stay close tonight."
"Why?" I ask, pretending innocence.
"Because I said so."
His hand presses lightly against my lower back, guiding me forward as more guests approach.
From afar, we look perfect — elegant, composed, united.
But underneath it all, it's a war of restraint.
And for the first time…
I think I'm starting to enjoy the fight.
---
ALEXANDER'S POV
She's chaos wrapped in silk.
Fire disguised as grace.
I told myself she wouldn't fit in — that this world would crush her, humble her.
But as she moves through the crowd, every man's eyes follow her like she's the only living thing in the room.
And she knows it.
She wears confidence like perfume — not too strong, just enough to intoxicate.
And I hate that I notice.
When Reeve touched her, something sharp went through me. Not jealousy. Possession.
A reminder that she bears my name, my ring — even if she doesn't want to.
But when she turned to me, meeting my warning with that quiet defiance, I knew I was in trouble.
Because I've seen power. I've dealt with greed, hatred, betrayal.
But this woman… she's different.
She doesn't want to win against me.
She wants to survive me.
And somehow, that makes her the most dangerous person in this room.
I glance at her across the hall, watching as laughter flickers around her like a spotlight.
I should look away.
But I can't.
She's not just surviving.
She's stealing the night.
And God help me…
I think she's starting to steal something else, too.