“Use me as bait. Let me get close to Celeste, make her believe she’s winning, draw her into a position where she’s vulnerable.” Elara’s eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “I know her better than she thinks I do. I can manipulate her the same way she’s been manipulating me.”
The proposal hits my nervous system like ice water. Every protective instinct I have rejects it immediately, completely, violently. Use Elara as bait? Let her walk into proximity with the woman who’s been orchestrating her destruction for months? Risk everything on the assumption that she can out-manipulate a professional manipulator?
But underneath the immediate rejection, tactical analysis begins. It’s not a terrible plan. Celeste’s emotional investment in Elara’s downfall could be turned against her. Personal hatred makes people reckless, causes them to take risks they’d normally avoid. And Elara does know her—knows her insecurities, her triggers, the psychological buttons to push.
“No,” I say immediately.
“Why not?”
“If something goes wrong, if she realizes what you’re doing, if the situation deteriorates—I can’t protect you if you’re deliberately walking into danger.”
“Then don’t protect me.” The words hit like physical blows. “Trust me. Trust that I’m smart enough, strong enough, capable enough to handle this myself.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything she’s really asking for. Not just participation in tactical planning, but recognition that she’s not just someone to be protected. She’s someone with agency, intelligence, the right to make choices about her own life even when those choices involve risk.
“If we do this,” I say finally, “you follow orders. No improvisation, no heroics, no deviating from the plan once it’s set.”
“Agreed.”
“If I say abort, if something feels wrong, if any detail changes in a way that increases the danger—you extract immediately without argument.”
“Agreed.”
I look around the room, taking in my brothers’ expressions. Simon looks thoughtful, already calculating operational parameters. Leon looks concerned but not opposed. Dima looks like he’s swallowing something bitter but necessary.
“Then we plan this together,” I say. “All of us. And we make sure that when it’s over, both Hale and Celeste understand exactly what happens to people who threaten my wife.”
Elara’s smile is sharp, predatory, beautiful in its promise of violence disguised as justice. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Looking at her—seeing the intelligence behind her eyes, the steel beneath her surface—I realize that loving her doesn’t mean protecting her from the world. It means trusting her tofight alongside me, to be partner rather than possession, to choose danger if that’s what victory requires.
It terrifies me more than anything I’ve ever faced.
Chapter Thirteen - Elara
The Meridian Gallery opening feels like stepping onto a stage where everyone knows their lines except me—except that’s not true anymore. Tonight, I know exactly what role I’m playing, and I’ve rehearsed every gesture, every inflection, every carefully crafted lie I’m about to sell.
The venue thrums with the particular energy of New York’s fashion elite: editors air-kissing over champagne, photographers positioning themselves for the perfect candid shot, designers holding court near their latest pieces while donors circle like well-dressed sharks. The space itself is all soaring glass and stark white walls, the kind of calculated minimalism that whispers expensive rather than shouting it.
I move through the crowd with practiced ease, spine straight, smile calibrated to the perfect degree of warmth without vulnerability. These people have seen my downfall, have whispered about my scandal, have written me off as yesterday’s cautionary tale. Tonight, I’m here to rewrite that narrative entirely.
The black dress I chose is armor disguised as elegance: high neckline, long sleeves, nothing that could be construed as desperate or attention-seeking. My hair is pulled back in a sleek chignon, jewelry minimal but expensive. I look like exactly what I am: a woman who has weathered a storm and emerged not just intact, but transformed.
Every eye in the room tracks my movement. Conversations pause as I pass, then resume in urgent whispers. Phones appear with suspicious frequency, capturing my presence for social media feeds that will dissect every detail of my appearance, my demeanor, my apparent emotional state. I let them look. Let them document.
Tonight, being seen is part of the strategy.
“Elara Quinn. I’m sorry, Elara Sharov now, isn’t it?”
The voice belongs to Miranda Chen, a gossip columnist whose smile never reaches her eyes. She appears at my elbow like a shark scenting blood, tablet already in hand to record whatever nugget of scandal she might extract.
“That’s right,” I say, allowing genuine warmth to color my voice. “Still getting used to it myself.”
“How are you holding up? The past few weeks must have been… challenging.”
Challenging. Such a delicate way to describe having your career destroyed and your life threatened. Miranda’s fishing expedition gives me the perfect opening to establish the evening’s narrative.
“Actually, they’ve been transformative. Sometimes the worst thing that can happen to you turns out to be exactly what you needed.” I touch the wedding ring on my finger—a gesture that looks unconscious but is entirely deliberate. “Meeting Nikola, understanding what real partnership looks like… it’s given me perspective I never had before.”
