After weeks of being imprisoned in our mansion following my abrupt return from Paris, this is my first public appearance.
The tight leash my father keeps me on has only grown shorter.
"Remember." Father's voice cuts like ice. "You're here to represent the Faulks name. Nothing more."
If only my mother were here. In my imagination, she would stand beside me, her hand warm in mine, telling Father to ease up, to let me breathe. But she's been gone since I was barely oldenough to remember her face—just fragments of warmth and the scent of jasmine.
Grandmother tried to fill that void, raised me with as much love as she could offer, but she never once stood up to him. Never once told her son he was wrong. I'll never understand why.
I nod, swallowing the sigh that threatens to escape. This public appearance feels both thrilling and terrifying. The air in the car is thick with Father's cologne, a scent that once meant safety but now feels suffocating.
We step out into a barrage of light and noise. The camera flashes blind me. Father's hand on my elbow is both support and restraint as he guides me through the throng of reporters. The night air carries a hint of autumn, crisp and full of promise.
"Miss Faulks! Mr. Faulks! Any comments on the Swan Collection?"
Father's grip tightens—a silent command to say nothing. We sweep past without comment, the cool air of the gallery a balm after the stuffy car ride.
Inside, the air thrums with excitement. The elite of society mingle, their chatter a constant hum beneath the staccato of my heels on polished marble. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the gathering, their light dancing off jewels and designer gowns.
As we move through the crowd, a hush falls. Conversations pause, heads turn. Father's presence commands respect, and the sea of people parts before us. The weight of their stares presses in—some admiring, some envious, all curious.
"Mr. Faulks." A portly man in an ill-fitting suit approaches, hand outstretched. "What an honor to have you here tonight."
"Harrison." Father nods curtly, barely acknowledging the man's presence. "I trust the gallery is prepared for tonight's event?"
"Of course, sir. Everything is in order. We've spared no expense." Harrison nods eagerly, sweat beading on his brow.
"See that it remains that way." Father's lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
We move on, leaving Harrison stammering behind us. This is Father's world—a place where his word is law, where a single nod or frown can make or break careers.
"Vivianne.” Dr. Phillips hurries toward us, tie askew and face flushed. "I'm so glad you could make it. This is going to be quite the reveal."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world. Though I must admit, I'm nervous. The first piece was... breathtaking." I return his smile, willing the butterflies in my stomach to settle. "I've been dying to ask about the other paintings. What can I expect?"
Father's eyes narrow at my words. I was present at the unveiling of the first painting weeks ago, and the memory still quickens my pulse. The exquisite detailing, the play of light on skin—Paul captured every nuance of that night at the chalet.
"Oh, my dear, they're simply exquisite. You can't believe the talent of the Star—" He catches himself, eyes widening. "The artist. It's truly remarkable work." A chuckle, though there's a twinkle in his eye.
"What were you going to say, Dr. Phillips?" My father leans in.
"Nothing, nothing. Just an old man's ramblings." Dr. Phillips waves a hand dismissively, but a hint of nervousness threads through the gesture. "But trust me, these paintings... they'll take your breath away. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get ready for the reveal."
As we move further into the gallery, the excitement is palpable. Collectors, critics, and socialites press close, vying for the best view. I scan the room, hoping for a glimpse of Paul, buthe's nowhere to be seen. Does he know I'm here? Does he know what happened after I returned from Paris?
Prescott approaches, his gait as predatory as ever. He's not an unattractive man, with his golden hair and chiseled features, but his eyes—those eyes are as dark as his black soul, and they send a chill down my spine.
He immediately lays his hands on me. His touch is possessive, his smile cold.
"Vivianne, darling, there you are. You look ravishing tonight."
He's dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that screams of wealth, but it's a new wealth, not the old money of the Faulks family.
His gaze rakes over me, lingering on the curves accentuated by my dress. I suppress a shudder, forcing a smile. "Thank you, Prescott. I didn't know you'd be here tonight."
"And miss the debut of my future wife's... discovery?" The sound that passes for his laugh is hollow and cold. "I wouldn't dream of it."
His voice drops to a whisper, meant for my ears alone. "Enjoy your little games while you can, Viv. Once we're married, you'll have more... pressing duties to attend to."
