The chandeliers of the Imperial Grand glittered like cages of light. Beneath them, Singapore's elite swirled in silks and champagne laughter, every smile sharp enough to wound.
Elena stood at the top of the marble staircase, the world tilting for a second. Cameras flashed like lightning below, her name now reborn in whispers, scandalous and strange.
"Mrs. Vega," a staffer announced, and the sound felt foreign in her ears.
She inhaled, steadying her breath, her gown a slip of midnight satin that clung like armor. Every step she took down the staircase was a silent war, between humiliation and pride.
At the bottom waited Adrian, immaculate in black tuxedo and indifference. He looked every inch the man the tabloids worshipped, the empire in human form.
When his gaze found her, something flickered. A pause too brief to name. Then he extended his hand.
"Elena." His tone was polished steel. "Ready to perform?"
"Always," she said through a smile. "You taught me well."
He leaned close, the whisper a brand against her skin.
"Smile for them, Mrs. Vega. Pretend it doesn't kill you."
She did.
Because that was the only power she had left to make him believe she didn't bleed anymore.
Every flash, every lens, every turn of a head, all of it was part of the choreography.
He held her waist, his fingers resting lightly at the small of her back. To the world, they were flawless: the fallen heiress reborn beside the untouchable billionaire.
But under the surface, tension coiled, sharp and live.
He could feel the tremor she fought to hide, the shallow rise and fall of her chest as they faced the cameras.
He should've felt triumphant. The woman who once left him now stood beside him, bound to his name, his world, his control.
But when her eyes met his calm, cold, unbroken gaze, he felt the unfamiliar sting of loss.
She had learned how to wear armor, and he had no idea how to pierce it anymore.
"Mr. Vega! Mrs. Vega! This way, please!"
The reporters swarmed, their shouts slicing through the air.
"How did you meet again?"
"Is it true you were once engaged to someone else, Miss Cruz?"
"Elena, are the rumors about your father's debts true?"
Her smile didn't falter.
He almost admired that.
He pulled her closer, the gesture protective for the cameras, possessive for himself.
"No comment," he said smoothly. "My wife doesn't answer gossip."
The word wife tasted dangerous.
She felt his hand on her waist, steady, warm, deceitful.
Every move they made was calculated, every gaze orchestrated for an audience that fed on illusion.
Inside, her heart felt like it was wrapped in ice.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm not afraid," she said.
He looked down, mouth curving faintly. "Then you're learning."
She wanted to tell him she wasn't learning, she was surviving.
The ballroom smelled of money and deceit. She could feel eyes crawling over her, women whispering behind champagne flutes, men watching with predatory curiosity.
Then she heard it.
"Pity," a voice murmured behind her.
"He married her out of revenge, you know."
The words cut through her like a blade hidden in silk.
She didn't turn. Didn't flinch.
But Adrian did.
His hand tightened slightly, just for a moment, before his mask fell back into place.
He leaned close, lips brushing her ear, the world around them watching, unaware of the quiet storm brewing.
"They're right, you know."
Her breath caught.
He straightened, smiling for the cameras again. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
"No," she whispered, her smile freezing. "But you've always been good at twisting truth into punishment."
He heard her voice, steady, cold, and something in his chest cracked open.
For a second, he almost forgot the crowd, the flashing lights, the glittering lie they were performing inside.
The past wasn't done with them. It never would be.
He clinked glasses with a politician's wife who was too curious for her own good, smiled for a reporter from The Straits Journal, then turned his gaze back to Elena.
She stood alone now, near the balcony, elegance personified, spine straight, chin lifted. But her eyes... they weren't the eyes of the girl he remembered.
They were the eyes of someone who had survived fire.
When she finally met his gaze across the room, it wasn't love that passed between them.
It was recognition.
Two ghosts dressed in gold.
The gala moved like a fever dream, speeches, toasts, laughter that didn't touch her.
Her reflection in the glass doors didn't look like her anymore. The woman in the mirror had Adrian Vega's last name and the world's attention, but none of her own freedom.
"Mrs. Vega," a voice broke through. She turned to find Clarisse Tan, a socialite with too much gloss and too little soul.
"I must say, your return caused quite the stir. No one expected Adrian to marry again, especially not you."
Elena smiled tightly. "Life is full of surprises."
"Indeed." Clarisse's voice dropped. "Some say it's revenge."
Elena tilted her head. "And what do you say?"
Clarisse's smile was a knife. "That revenge makes for very short marriages."
Before Elena could respond, Adrian appeared beside her, his arm slipping easily around her waist, a silent claim, a warning.
"Clarisse," he said smoothly, "I see gossip hasn't lost its favorite mouth."
The woman flushed, lips parting in embarrassment. "Adrian, I didn't mean..."
"I'm sure you didn't." His tone made the apology unnecessary.
Clarisse retreated quickly, and Elena turned to him, whispering, "You enjoy scaring people?"
"I enjoy shutting them up," he replied.
"Do you ever tire of being feared?"
His gaze met hers, unflinching. "It's better than being forgotten."
Her breath hitched. Because that, that was the truth beneath his empire.
Fear was the only way he knew to be remembered.
Hours later, the gala continued to glitter, music swelling, champagne flowing, a thousand lies disguised as celebration.
He and Elena played their roles perfectly. Every smile rehearsed, every touch precise.
To the world, they were unstoppable.
But when she turned to him beneath the lights, the distance between them felt infinite.
"Why this?" she asked quietly when the photographers drifted away.
He didn't pretend not to understand.
"This marriage. The spectacle. Me." Her voice softened, almost breaking. "Why me, Adrian?"
He studied her, the calm, the defiance, the pain.
"Because you were the one thing I couldn't control," he said finally.
Her eyes widened, not at the cruelty, but at the honesty of it.
He leaned close, his breath ghosting against her ear. "And now I do."
She stepped back, jaw trembling. "No, Adrian. You only think you do."
Before he could respond, a ripple passed through the crowd. Heads turned. Murmurs rose like wind.
He caught fragments of the whispers, cruel, eager, ravenous.
"She married him out of desperation."
"No, he married her out of revenge."
"Imagine living with the man who destroyed your father."
Adrian's hand clenched around his glass until it cracked.
For once, Elena didn't move to hide it. She looked at him, really looked, and in her gaze, he saw something he hadn't seen since they were young.
Pity.
That, more than anger, made him furious.
He set the glass down, composed himself, and turned back toward the flashing cameras.
"Time to go," he said.
"Running away?" she asked softly.
"Protecting what's mine."
She exhaled a bitter laugh. "Then maybe you should start with your heart."
They left the gala to a blinding storm of flashes, journalists shouting, microphones thrust forward, the headlines already forming.
"Mr. Vega! Is it true you married Miss Cruz out of revenge?"
"Mrs. Vega, were you aware of your father's financial ties to Vega Holdings?"
"Is this a love story or a power play?"
Adrian guided her through the chaos, his grip firm but silent. Cameras caught everything, his hand on her waist, the tension in her eyes, the lie that looked too perfect to question.
In the limousine, silence swallowed them both.
The city lights streaked past the window, reflected in her eyes like small fires.
Finally, she said, "They're not wrong, are they?"
He didn't look at her. "Does it matter?"
"It does to me."
He met her gaze then, unreadable, restrained. "Then maybe stop giving them reasons to talk."
She laughed once, brittle, exhausted. "The only reason they're talking is because you made me your revenge."
His jaw tightened. "Careful, Elena."
"Or what?" she shot back. "You'll break me again?"
He turned away, staring out the window. "No," he said quietly. "Once was enough."
When the car stopped outside Vega Tower, he didn't move.
She stepped out first, flashbulbs chasing her silhouette through the rain.
For a moment, he stayed behind, eyes closed, hands gripping the steering leather, breath steadying against the weight of something he refused to name.
He had everything he'd ever wanted, control, victory, her beside him.
So why did it still feel like loss?
When he finally followed her inside, she was already at the elevator, back straight, head high.
She didn't look at him when she said, "If this is your idea of revenge, Adrian, you might want to check who's actually burning."
The doors closed before he could answer.
Upstairs, the first online headlines exploded across every screen in Singapore.
"The Vega Marriage Scandal: Love, Lies, and Legacy."
And beneath the noise, one anonymous comment rose to the top of every thread,
He didn't marry her for love.
He married her to remember how it felt to lose her.
Adrian stared at the screen, the truth stinging more than the rumor.
For the first time, he wondered which was the lie, the marriage, or the vengeance that built it.