The gala glittered with practiced opulence, golden chandeliers, a sea of designer gowns, and the constant hum of conversations shaped more by ambition than sincerity. Elena Vega moved through it like a ghost draped in silk. Her champagne-colored gown shimmered softly under the lights, her expression composed, poised, the perfect political wife.
Adrian Vega walked beside her, the embodiment of control in a dark, tailored suit. His hand rested on her lower back, a gesture that, to the watching world, looked tender. But Elena knew better. Every touch from him was a command; every smile, a reminder that their marriage was less a union than a contract signed in fire.
"Smile," he murmured under his breath, not turning to look at her. "The cameras are on you."
She did. Her lips curved, her eyes didn't. Another flash went off, capturing the illusion.
Inside, something in her recoiled.
Later, she found herself on the balcony, breathing in the cool night air. Beyond the ballroom's glittering chaos, the city lights burned steady, unblinking, as if mocking the fragile glamour behind her.
She traced the rim of her glass absently, watching her reflection in the dark windowpane. There was a woman staring back who wore the right dress, the right expression, the right story, and yet she felt like a stranger.
"Mrs. Vega?"
The voice broke through the quiet. Smooth. Warm. It didn't belong to the hollow politeness of the gala.
Elena turned.
He stood by the doorway, framed by soft light, tall, broad-shouldered, a quiet charisma that didn't demand attention but drew it anyway. His eyes were lighter than Adrian's, a cool gray with something unguarded behind them.
"I'm sorry if I startled you," he said, stepping closer. "I thought you might want some company. These events can be… exhausting."
"They are," she said, her tone polite but cautious.
He extended a hand, the gesture effortless. "Ethan Vega."
The name made her still. Vega.
He noticed. "Yes," he said with a hint of a grin, "the other one. Adrian's half-brother. The one who didn't inherit the empire."
Elena allowed herself a faint smile. "You don't seem to mind."
"I don't," Ethan replied. "Empires have a way of consuming the people who build them."
Her gaze drifted back to the ballroom, where Adrian stood surrounded by a circle of cameras and politicians, his smile practiced and precise.
"You're not wrong," she murmured.
For the first time that evening, the tightness in her chest eased. Ethan didn't look at her like she was a performance. His questions weren't traps. His smile wasn't a mask.
They talked, about art, about travel, about small, irrelevant things that felt strangely important because they were real. Elena realized how long it had been since she'd been spoken to without calculation.
When the orchestra began a slow waltz, Ethan glanced toward the dance floor, then back at her.
"May I?"
Elena hesitated. Across the room, Adrian was still deep in conversation, his expression unreadable from this distance. Logic warned her to refuse to keep her place, her distance, her safety. But exhaustion had a way of dulling fear.
She placed her hand in his.
The dance was unplanned, gentle, almost fragile. Ethan's hand rested lightly against her back, his movements deliberate but never possessive. He guided her through the rhythm with ease, as if time had softened its edges just for them.
"You dance beautifully," he said.
"I used to," she replied, her voice barely above the music.
"Then you still do," he said simply.
For a moment, she allowed herself to forget, to exist in the warmth of the music, in the rare sensation of ease. The world blurred. The cameras, the whispers, the wounds, all slipped away.
But the reprieve didn't last.
Adrian's gaze found them.
Even in a room filled with light, his presence felt like shadow. He stood near the far end of the ballroom, one hand in his pocket, a glass of scotch untouched in the other. His eyes, dark, cutting, followed every step, every movement, every stolen second of the dance.
Elena felt the air tighten around her, as if invisible strings were being pulled.
Ethan noticed too. "Your husband," he said softly.
She nodded once, a small, guarded motion.
"He doesn't look pleased," Ethan remarked.
"He never does."
There was something dangerously honest in her tone, something she hadn't meant to reveal. But Ethan didn't push. He only said, "Then maybe it's time someone else gave you a reason to smile."
It was the kind of sentence she should have ignored, a kind that could ruin both of them, but the sincerity in his voice made her heart stumble.
The music faded. She stepped back. "Thank you, Mr. Vega."
He smiled faintly. "Ethan."
Her lips curved despite herself. "Ethan."
Adrian appeared before she could catch her breath.
"Elena," he said, voice low, the edges of his control barely sheathed in civility. "Enjoying yourself?"
She didn't flinch. "It was just a dance."
"Just a dance," he echoed, studying her face with unnerving calm. "Funny. You never look that alive with me."
Her throat tightened. "Maybe that says more about you than it does about me."
For a moment, his eyes darkened, unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiled, the kind of smile that looked beautiful and dangerous all at once.
To the cameras, it was charm. To her, it was a warning.
He slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close for the benefit of watching eyes. "Careful, Elena," he murmured. "You're forgetting the rules."
"I didn't make them," she said.
"But you agreed to play," he replied, his breath brushing her ear. "And I always win my games."
She met his gaze, her silence its own defiance.
Adrian looked away, toward Ethan, who was watching from across the room, his expression unreadable, his posture deceptively calm.
A spark of fury flickered in Adrian's eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
He leaned down, his tone smooth, his words meant only for her.
"Enjoy your dance, Mrs. Vega," he whispered. "Because from now on, I decide who gets that privilege."
The orchestra swelled again. Cameras flashed. The world saw a perfect couple bathed in gold light, powerful, beautiful, untouchable.
Only Elena felt the burn beneath the surface, the tremor that warned her the storm had begun.
And across the room, Ethan Vega raised his glass, his gaze meeting Adrian's for the briefest, charged second.
The brothers smiled.
Neither smile reached their eyes.