The days following the engagement announcement were a study in surreal isolation. Amelia moved through the cavernous house like a ghost, her presence tolerated but unacknowledged. Mrs. Higgins was a constant, silent reminder of the rules, her tablet governing Amelia's life with chilling efficiency: Yoga session, 7 AM. Lunch with the curator from the MoMA (accompanied), 1 PM. Fitting for the Met Gala gown, 4 PM.
Alexander was almost entirely absent, buried in his off-limits study or at his corporate tower in Manhattan. The few times she saw him were like glimpsing a shark in deep water—a flash of dark suit and focused intensity before he disappeared again. The memory of their confrontation in the entrance hall and the searing look he'd given her during the photograph haunted her. It was easier to think of him as a monster when he wasn't around. That lingering heat in his gaze complicated things.
The silence was broken by the arrival of the Met Gala gown.
It was delivered by an armored courier and presented to her in her suite by a trembling, awestruck assistant. When the garment bag was unzipped, Amelia actually gasped. It was not a dress; it was a weapon. Crafted from liquid midnight-blue velvet, it was deceptively simple at first glance—a sleeveless, columnar silhouette. But when she moved, or when the light hit it just so, intricate silver embroidery emerged, depicting constellations and swirling galaxies. It was heavy, exquisitely made, and terrifying.
"That's a 'Starry Night' original," the assistant breathed. "There are only three in the world. Mr. Blackwood had it flown in from Paris."
That evening, as instructed, she put it on. It fit as if it had been woven onto her body. The velvet was soft yet demanding against her skin, the weight of it feeling like the burden of her entire false identity. She left her hair down, as the stylist had suggested, falling in soft waves over her bare shoulders. She looked regal and ethereal, a queen of a kingdom she never wanted.
Alexander was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He was in a tuxedo, but this one was different—a subtle sheen to the fabric, a cut that was even more severe and modern. He looked like a king, or a god of the new world. His eyes tracked her every step as she descended, and this time, there was no masking the stark appreciation in his gaze. It was quick, brutally assessed, and then shuttered away.
"You look… appropriate," he said, his voice rough.
"Appropriate?" she echoed, a spark of her defiance igniting. "For the price of this dress, I'd hope for more than 'appropriate'."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "It serves its purpose. You will be the most talked-about woman there. Not because of the dress, but because you are on my arm."
The arrogance should have infuriated her. Instead, it sent an unwelcome thrill through her. He was a monster, but he was a powerful one, and for tonight, in this dress, she was his equal.
The Met Gala was a whirlwind of blinding lights, deafening music, and a sea of the most famous faces on the planet. Amelia clung to Alexander's arm, her smile plastered on, her heart a frantic drum in her chest. He was different here. In public, his coldness was leavened with a devastating, charismatic charm. He knew everyone, greeted them by name, and introduced her with a possessive warmth that felt terrifyingly real.
"My fiancée, Amelia," he would say, his hand a firm, guiding pressure on the small of her back.
She played her part, her laughter light, her comments about the theme ("Celestial Bodies") clever and brief. She was performing the role of a lifetime, and she was, to her own surprise, good at it. But the strain was immense. Every flash of a camera felt like an interrogation.
During a lull, as Alexander was pulled into a conversation with a tech billionaire, Amelia found a moment of respite near a massive ice sculpture. She let her social smile slip, allowing the exhaustion to show for just a second.
"Quite the performance."
She turned to see Damian Vance leaning against the sculpture, a smirk on his face. He was holding two champagne flutes and offered her one.
"I don't know what you mean," she said coolly, refusing the glass.
"Come now, Amelia. We both know Alex doesn't do 'whirlwind romances'. He does acquisitions and mergers. What are you? The latest?"
Her blood ran cold, but she kept her composure. "You seem very interested in our relationship, Mr. Vance. One might almost call it an obsession."
His smirk faltered for a second, replaced by a flash of anger. "Be careful, little girl. The higher you fly on borrowed wings, the harder you fall. I know things about your precious fiancé. Things that would make that pretty dress feel like a shroud."
Before she could retort, a voice, cold as polished steel, cut through the air.
"Damian. Bothering my fiancée?"
Alexander was there, materializing beside her as if summoned by her fear. His presence was a solid wall of menace. He didn't touch her, but he stood so close she could feel the heat from his body.
"Just offering my congratulations, Alex," Damian said, his smile returning, though it didn't reach his eyes. "She's quite the find. So… resilient."
"Your congratulations are noted," Alexander said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now, if you'll excuse us, the photographers are waiting."
He didn't wait for a reply. He simply turned, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing through hers in a gesture that was shockingly intimate. It was the first time he had truly held her hand. His grip was firm, warm, and possessive. He pulled her away from Damian, through the crowd, his stride purposeful.
They stopped before the step-and-repeat, a wall of flashing cameras. He turned to her, his body shielding her slightly from the crowd. His eyes, for a brief moment, were not cold. They were intense, searching.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low, meant only for her.
The question, so unexpected, so devoid of its usual ice, threw her completely off balance. She could only nod, mesmerized by the sudden humanity in his gaze.
"Good," he said. Then, his voice dropping to a whisper that feathered against her ear, he gave a new command, one that wasn't in the contract. "Now, kiss me."
Her eyes widened. This wasn't part of the script. A chaste kiss on the cheek, perhaps. But this…
The cameras were waiting, their lenses like unblinking eyes. She could see the curiosity, the anticipation. It was the ultimate performance.
Hating him, hating herself, and driven by a confusing surge of adrenaline and something else she refused to name, she rose onto her toes. She framed his face with her hands, feeling the surprising softness of his skin and the hard line of his jaw. His eyes darkened, the storm in them swirling.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn't a gentle, loving kiss. It was a claiming. A statement. It was full of all the anger, the defiance, the frustration, and the terrifying, unwanted attraction that had been building between them. His lips were firm and surprisingly soft, and for a heart-stopping second, he was completely still.
Then, with a low sound that was almost a growl, he responded.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against the hard planes of his body, the velvet of her dress crushing against the fine wool of his tuxedo. The kiss deepened, no longer a performance for the cameras but a raw, primal battle for control. It was fire and ice, a clash of wills that sent sparks shooting through her entire nervous system. The world, the gala, the watching eyes—everything faded into a blur of sensation. All she knew was the taste of him—whiskey and mint and pure, unadulterated power—and the devastating feel of his mouth on hers.
When they finally broke apart, the roar of the crowd and the frantic camera flashes rushed back in. They were both breathing heavily. His eyes were blazing, the Arctic ice completely melted, replaced by a fire that threatened to consume them both.
He kept his arm tightly around her waist as he turned them to face the cameras, a triumphant, possessive smile on his face. Amelia, her legs trembling, managed a dazed, radiant smile of her own.
Back in the town car, speeding away from the museum, the silence was thick and charged. They sat on opposite sides of the spacious backseat, the space between them vibrating with what had just happened.
Amelia stared out the window, her lips still tingling, her body humming. She could feel his gaze on her.
"That," he said, his voice back to its usual cool timbre, though she detected a faint roughness beneath, "was unexpected."
She turned to look at him, her own mask back in place, though it felt more fragile than ever. "You told me to kiss you."
"I did," he acknowledged, his eyes tracing the line of her mouth. "I didn't tell you to start a war."
"It's not a war if only one person is fighting," she retorted, her chin lifting.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face, visible in the passing streetlights. "Oh, it's a war, Amelia. And you just proved you're not nearly as outgunned as I thought."
He looked away, ending the conversation, but the energy in the car remained, a live wire of tension and unsaid things.
When they arrived home, he didn't escort her to her room. He simply walked towards his study. But he paused at the door and looked back at her, his expression unreadable.
"The performance was flawless tonight," he said. "Get some rest."
He disappeared inside, the door clicking shut with finality.
Amelia stood alone in the grand hallway, the memory of his kiss burning on her lips. The lines weren't just blurred anymore. They had been utterly obliterated. And she was terrified to realize that a part of her, a treacherous, wild part, didn't want to redraw them. The gilded cage was still there, but the bars were beginning to feel dangerously, seductively warm.