The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a fortress of culture and excess, its grand staircase swarmed by photographers whose flashes acted like a rhythmic, silent heartbeat.
Elias stood at the base of the stairs, checking his watch—a habit of a man who lived by seconds. He was in a tuxedo that fit him with architectural precision, but he looked less like a celebrant and more like a soldier waiting for a signal.
Then, a black car pulled to the curb.
When Clara stepped out, the noise of the crowd seemed to drop an octave. The emerald silk caught the light, shifting between deep forest and bright sea-foam as she moved. The phoenix brooch pinned to her shoulder gleamed with a quiet, ancient defiance. She didn't look like a woman whose company was being picked apart by vultures; she looked like the woman who owned the sky.
Elias felt a sharp, unfamiliar hitch in his chest. It wasn't just attraction—though that was there, undeniable and intrusive—it was the realization that he had underestimated her. Again.
He stepped forward, offering his arm as she reached the bottom step.
"Ms. Vance," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, public-facing baritone. "You're exactly on time."
"I figured if I was going to walk into a lion's den, I should at least be punctual for the feeding," Clara whispered, her hand sliding onto his sleeve. The silk of her glove was thin, and through it, he could feel the slight tremor in her fingers.
She was terrified. And she was perfect.
"Stay close," he murmured, leaning down so his breath brushed her ear—a move designed for the cameras, but the heat of it was real. "The room is full of people waiting for you to flinch. Don't."
"I don't flinch, Elias. I endure."
They entered the Great Hall, a unified front of dark wool and shimmering emerald. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive lilies and even more expensive desperation. Within seconds, they were intercepted by Julian Vane—a rival logistics mogul who had been circling Vance Logistics like a shark for months.
"Elias. And the lovely Clara," Vane said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "I saw the news. A bit of a messy leak, wasn't it? I was surprised to see Sterling & Associates sticking around for the fallout. Usually, you're the first one to cut the cord when the blood hits the water."
Elias felt Clara's hand tighten on his arm. He didn't let her speak first.
"The 'blood,' as you call it, Julian, is merely the noise of a massive machine shifting gears," Elias said, his tone bored, dismissive. "If you found the leak messy, you'll find the Q4 profits quite clean. We aren't just 'sticking around.' We're integrating."
"Is that so?" Vane looked at Clara, his gaze predatory. "And how is the 'integration' going, Clara? Hard to keep your independence when you're being... optimized?"
Clara stepped forward, not breaking her physical connection to Elias, but reclaiming her space. "Independence is a mindset, Julian. Something you wouldn't understand, given how much you rely on hostile takeovers to grow. Elias and I? We're building. You should try it sometime."
Elias felt a surge of something that felt dangerously like pride. He shifted his stance, pulling her slightly closer until her shoulder was tucked against his chest. It was a possessive gesture, one that sent a ripple of murmurs through the surrounding crowd.
"If you'll excuse us," Elias said, his eyes locking onto Vane's with a cold finality. "We have a dance to attend to."
He led her toward the center of the floor, where a string quartet was playing a slow, sweeping waltz.
"I didn't know you danced," Clara said as he turned her into his arms. One hand settled on the small of her back, the other clasping her hand.
"I don't," Elias admitted, his gaze fixed on hers as they began to move. "But I'm a very quick study when the stakes are high."
The waltz forced a proximity that the office never could. Every rotation brought her silk-clad legs against his, her scent of rain and jasmine clouding his senses. For the first time, the "Performance" felt like it was slipping. The cameras were still there, the vultures were still watching, but as Elias looked into Clara's defiant, beautiful eyes, he realized the most dangerous lie wasn't the one they were telling the world.
It was the one he was starting to tell himself.