Their first public appearance as a "reconciled" couple was a masterpiece of theater, each loving glance a lie, each tender touch a blade held at each other's throats.
The Met Gala was a cathedral of curated excess, a roaring sea of jewels, silk, and surgically enhanced smiles. Elara stood at Alistair's side, a vision in a gown of midnight velvet that he had chosen, its high neck and long sleeves a stark contrast to the plunging necklines around them. It was not a dress meant to seduce the crowd; it was armor, a statement of shielded possession. The weight of the fabric was a constant reminder of the role she was now forced to play.
His hand rested on the small of her back, a brand of ownership that burned through the velvet. He guided her through the throng, his touch firm, steering her like a luxury vessel through treacherous waters. To the world, they were Alistair Crowe and his brilliant, reclusive artist lover, their recent "lovers' spat" now gloriously mended. He would lean in, his lips brushing her ear to whisper a direction — "Smile, darling. The cameras at two o'clock." — and the warm puff of his breath felt like a serpent's kiss.
She played her part. She tilted her head up at him, letting a soft, adoring light she didn't feel shine in her eyes. She laughed at a financier's dull joke, her hand resting lightly on Alistair's arm, feeling the coiled tension in his bicep. It was a dizzying, nauseating dance. The champagne flute in her hand was a prop; she didn't dare drink, needing every one of her senses to navigate this minefield.
He was flawless in his performance. His arrogance was tempered into proud devotion. His gaze, when it rested on her, was warm, possessive, and utterly convincing. He was the sun, and she was his orbiting planet, and every person in the room bought the celestial lie. But she could feel the calculation humming beneath his skin, the hyper-vigilance he masked with smooth charm. He wasn't just playing a part; he was scanning the room for threats, his body a subtle shield between her and the crowd.
It was during a conversation with a Swiss banking magnate that the performance was put to its most terrifying test. The man, Gottlieb, was all polished civility, but his eyes were chips of glacial ice. He was known to have deep, murky ties in parts of the world where the Sable Group thrived.
"A stunning piece on your arm, Crowe," Gottlieb said, his accent precise, his gaze sliding over Elara like she was a sculpture in a museum. He raised his champagne flute in a mock toast. "Velvet. A bold choice. So… concealing." His lips stretched into a thin smile. "It's a shame how fragile such beautiful things can be. A single spark, and the whole tapestry can be ruined."
The words were veiled in polite conversation, but the threat beneath was as real and sharp as a shard of glass. Elara felt her smile freeze on her face. Alistair's hand on her back didn't so much as twitch, but she felt the minute tightening of his entire frame, a predator sensing a challenge.
Alistair's response was a quiet, chilling counter-threat, his voice dropping to a tone only the three of them could hear. "Some tapestries," he murmured, his eyes locked on Gottlieb's, "are woven with steel threads. And I am the most… protective curator."