Elena's dress hugged her curves in all the right ways, the black silk shimmering under the soft chandelier lights. She tugged at the hem nervously, wishing Victor hadn't insisted she accompany him tonight.
"You look perfect," Victor murmured behind her, adjusting his cufflinks. His dark eyes scanned the room, but they kept flicking back to her.
Elena swallowed. Perfect? She felt anything but. Her heart thumped like a drum.
"Remember the rules," he added, his voice low but sharp. "Stay by my side. Smile. Don't embarrass me."
"Yes, sir," she muttered, biting her lip.
The moment they stepped into the grand hall, all eyes turned toward them. Victor Hale was not a man who blended in; he commanded attention like gravity itself. And now, with Elena on his arm, whispers spread through the crowd.
Elena felt her cheeks flush as high-society women appraised her silently, while men gave appreciative glances. She forced herself to keep her composure.
Victor leaned close as they approached the podium. "Ignore them," he said softly, his lips brushing her ear. "They can look, but none of them touch what's mine."
Heat raced through her body at his words. She clenched her fists inside her gloves, reminding herself that she didn't belong to anyone.
A woman in a striking red gown approached, her smile polite but her eyes calculating. "Victor! I didn't expect you to bring a companion tonight."
Victor's gaze hardened. "Elena Moore," he said, introducing her in a tone that brooked no interruption.
Elena curtsied slightly. "Good evening."
The woman's eyes lingered on Elena, taking in her dress, her posture, her very presence. A flicker of something—jealousy? envy?—passed over her features.
Victor's hand rested lightly on the small of Elena's back, guiding her without touching too much. But the warmth of his palm against her skin sent a shiver down her spine.
"Let's get a drink," Victor whispered. "Away from the crowd."
They moved to a quieter corner. Elena's pulse was erratic, and she fought the sudden urge to look away from him. He was impossibly close. The scent of his cologne, the quiet authority in his gaze—it was intoxicating.
"I don't like being shown off," she said quietly, trying to sound annoyed.
"You don't have a choice," he replied with a smirk. "This is part of the role you agreed to."
She looked up at him, her heart thudding against her ribs. The intensity in his eyes was impossible to ignore.
A toast was called, and Victor raised his glass. "To the evening," he said, but his eyes didn't leave hers.
Elena felt a flush rise to her neck. She knew he was enjoying this—her discomfort, her reaction, the tiny betrayals her body couldn't hide.
As the night wore on, Elena found herself glancing at Victor more than the crowd, drawn to him in ways she hadn't admitted yet. Every word he spoke, every subtle brush of his fingers against hers, teased her senses.
By the time they left the hall, Elena was breathless—not from dancing, not from the crowd, but from the magnetic, dangerous presence of the man she was forced to live with.