The green room smelled of hairspray and anxiety.
It was a small, windowless holding area behind the main stage of the Vance-Thorne Plaza hotel ballroom. Diane was hovering over me like a hummingbird, picking lint off my shoulder that didn't exist and re-powdering my nose for the tenth time.
"Remember," Diane hissed, checking her clipboard. "Chin up. Don't smile too much. You are recovering from exhaustion, not winning the lottery. You need to look fragile but resilient. Can you do resilient?"
"I'm doing my best not to throw up," I muttered.
"Don't do that," Diane said sharply. "Vomit stains silk. And that blouse is a custom Chanel."
I looked at myself in the lighted vanity mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger. The makeup artist had contoured my face to make my cheekbones look sharper, colder. My hair was blown out into a sleek, dark curtain. I looked expensive. I looked dangerous.
But inside, I was shaking.
My phone buzzed in my clutch. I checked it surreptitiously.
Silas: I'm watching you. One mistake and the deal is off. Remember the debt.
I swallowed hard, shoving the phone back into my purse. The burnt polaroid was gone, turned to ash in the library fireplace, but the image was branded into my mind. They had chosen me. They had hunted me. And now, they were going to put me on display.
The door opened. The noise from the hallway poured in, a dull roar of hundreds of people talking at once.
Julian walked in.
He was breathtaking. There was no other word for it. He wore a navy suit that was tailored to within an inch of its life, a crisp white shirt, and a silver tie. He looked like the king of New York.
He stopped in the center of the room, ignoring Diane and the makeup artists. His eyes locked onto mine.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"Do I have a choice?" I replied.
"No," Julian said simply. "You don't."
He walked over to me and extended his arm. It was a formal gesture, cold and practiced, but I hesitated.
"They are waiting, Elena," he said, his voice dropping. "There are fifty cameras out there. The second we walk through those curtains, we are the happy couple. We are the reunited lovers. Do not flinch when I touch you."
"I won't flinch," I lied.
I stood up and took his arm.
His muscles were hard beneath the expensive wool of his suit. He felt solid, immovable. For a split second, I felt a strange urge to lean into him, to let his strength hold me up. But I remembered his words from the library. We are business partners. Nothing more.
"Let's go," he said.
We walked down the hallway, flanked by security guards. The noise grew louder with every step. It sounded like a storm.
"Julian," I whispered, my grip on his arm tightening. "What if they ask about the incident? Diane prepped me, but I'm still..."
"Let me handle the difficult questions," Julian said, looking straight ahead. "You just look at me like I'm the only man in the world. Can you manage that?"
"I've been doing this for a long time" I murmured. "I can fake anything."
Julian stopped right before the heavy velvet curtains leading to the stage. He turned to me, his face inches from mine. For a moment, his mask slipped. He looked at me with intense scrutiny, searching for something in my eyes.
"Then prove it," he whispered.
He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed against my neck, warm and rough. A jolt of electricity shot through me, so sharp I almost gasped.
He felt it too. I saw his eyes widen slightly, the grey irises darkening. He pulled his hand back slowly.
"Five seconds," the stage manager whispered into his headset. "Go."
Julian gripped my hand, interlacing our fingers. His grip was tight, almost painful.
"Smile," he commanded.
The curtains parted.
The world turned white.
The flashbulbs were blinding. It was like walking into the center of a supernova. A wall of noise hit us, a cacophony of shouting reporters and clicking shutters.
"Elena! Elena over here!"
"Mrs. Thorne! Look this way!"
"Julian! Is it true she was in rehab?"
I froze. The sheer volume of it was terrifying.
But Julian didn't falter. He pulled me forward, guiding me toward the podium in the center of the stage. He squeezed my hand, a silent signal. Keep moving.
We reached the microphones. Julian stepped up first, shielding me with his body. He raised a hand, and the room slowly quieted down.
"Thank you all for coming," Julian said. His voice was deep, commanding, booming through the speakers. "As you know, the past few months have been... challenging for our family. But I am happy to report that the rumors are false."
He turned to look at me. He smiled. It was a dazzling, perfect smile that didn't reach his eyes, but on camera, it must have looked like true love.
"My wife is home," he said. "And she is here to stay."
He stepped back, gesturing for me to take the microphone.
It was my turn.
The microphone stood before me like a silver judge, waiting for a confession.
I gripped the sides of the podium, feeling the cold metal bite into my palms. The lights were hot, searing against my skin, and for a moment, I couldn't see anything beyond the blinding glare. The room was a wash of white noise and camera flashes.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to remember Diane's instructions. Fragile but resilient.
"Thank you," I tried again, my voice stronger this time. "It has been a difficult road, but I am grateful to be standing here today. I am grateful to be home."
A reporter in the front row, a woman with sharp glasses and a predatory stance, shouted over the others. "Elena! Is it true you were receiving treatment in Switzerland? There were reports of a breakdown."
I glanced at Julian. He was standing just a step behind me, a silent sentinel. His face was composed, but I could feel the tension radiating off him. He gave a barely perceptible nod.
"I needed time," I said, looking back at the woman. "The pressure of this life... it can be overwhelming. I took time to heal myself so I could be the wife Julian deserves."
"And are you healed?" another reporter yelled from the left.
"I am a work in progress," I said softly, improvising. "Just like everyone else."
The flashes intensified. I felt a strange shift in the atmosphere. They were eating it up. They didn't want a perfect statue, they wanted a flawed human being, and I was giving them one. The fear in my chest began to recede, replaced by the familiar adrenaline of performance. This was just a stage. These were just lines.
I answered three more questions with increasing ease. I deflected inquiries about the family business and spun a question about my charity work into a compliment for Julian. I was doing it. I was actually pulling it off.
I dared to look at Julian again. This time, the approval in his eyes was unmistakable. The darkness in his gaze had lifted slightly, replaced by something that looked almost like pride. Or perhaps relief that I wasn't embarrassing him.
"One last question," the moderator announced from the side.
A hush fell over the room as a man stood up in the center aisle. He didn't have a camera. He held a small notepad and wore a cynical expression that made my stomach drop.
"Mr. Thorne spoke of rumors," the man said, his voice carrying clearly without shouting. "But he didn't address the specific events of that night."
I froze.