“The marriage? Some people have suggested it was rather… sudden.”
“When you know, you know.” I laugh, light and genuine-sounding. “The media loves drama, so they’ve tried to make our relationship into something complicated and dark. But honestly? He’s the kindest man I’ve ever met. Protective without being possessive, strong without being cruel. I’ve never felt safer or more supported.”
The lies flow like honey, sweet and golden and completely convincing. Miranda scribbles notes, already constructing thenarrative she’ll publish tomorrow: Reformed Model Finds Love and Stability with Russian Businessman.
She moves on to easier prey, and I continue my circuit of the room. Brief conversations with photographers who remember me from better days, stilted small talk with designers who are calculating whether I’m worth the social risk of public association. Each interaction builds on the last, constructing a careful image: a woman who has not been broken but reborn.
Then I see her.
Celeste stands near the bar in the gallery’s north wing, silver hair swept into a perfect chignon, wearing a champagne-colored dress that probably cost more than most people’s rent. She’s holding court with a small cluster of industry insiders, gesturing elegantly as she tells some story that has them all laughing at precisely the right moments.
She looks flawless. Untouchable. Exactly like the woman who warned me about Nikola in that hallway while secretly orchestrating my destruction.
I approach slowly, allowing her to notice me before I reach speaking distance. I watch her face carefully, cataloging the micro-expressions that flicker across her features: surprise, calculation, something that might be satisfaction quickly masked by concern.
“Celeste.” I embrace her the way we always have—air kisses, careful not to disturb makeup or hair. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Elara!” Her voice carries just the right note of delighted surprise. “Darling, I wasn’t sure you’d be here. How are you? How are you really?”
The question comes loaded with implication: tell me you’re miserable, tell me you’ve made a terrible mistake, tell me that everything I predicted has come true.
“I’m wonderful,” I say instead, and let genuine happiness color my voice. “Better than I’ve been in years, actually.”
“Are you?” There’s the slightest tightening around her eyes. “When we last spoke, you were so angry, so determined to confront that man. I worried that maybe… well, that maybe you were acting out of emotion rather than logic.”
“Oh, that.” I wave a hand dismissively. “You were right to be concerned. I was furious, ready to storm into his world and demand answers. You know what? It was exactly what we both needed.”
I lean in conspiratorially, voice dropping just enough to make her lean closer. “Sometimes the best relationships start with a fight. All that passion, all that intensity—it just needed to be redirected.”
The lie tastes bitter, but I deliver it with perfect conviction. Celeste’s smile becomes more strained, and I can see her recalibrating whatever script she’d prepared for this conversation.
“So you and… Nikola… you’re happy?”
“Blissfully. It’s amazing how wrong first impressions can be, isn’t it? I went in expecting a monster and found a man who would do anything to protect the people he loves.”
I touch my ring again, a gesture that’s becoming automatic. “The media narrative about the Sharov family is so distorted. Nikola’s world seems dangerous from the outside, but from the inside? It’s like being wrapped in the most beautiful, secure blanket you can imagine.”
Each word is carefully chosen to needle her expectations, to suggest that her plan not only failed but backfired spectacularly. I’m not broken. I’m not trapped. I’m not suffering the consequences she orchestrated so carefully.
I’m thriving.
“Professionally?” she asks. “I know the scandal was… difficult.”
“Actually, it was liberating.” I sip my champagne, let the statement hang between us. “Sometimes you need everything torn down before you can build something better. I’ve been meeting with agents, discussing some incredible opportunities that would never have been available before.”
This part is pure fiction, but I deliver it with absolute confidence. “There’s interest from several major houses about exclusive contracts. Nothing I can announce yet, but…” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Let’s just say that coming back from scandal, if done correctly, can actually increase your market value.”
I watch her face carefully as I speak, clocking every micro-expression. The slight tightening around her eyes when I mention exclusive contracts. The way her grip tightens on her champagne flute when I suggest increased market value. The barely perceptible tightening of her jaw when she realizes that destroying me might have actually elevated my status.
“How wonderful for you,” she says, and the words sound like they’re being scraped over broken glass.
“It really is. I owe so much of it to that conversation we had after the show. When you warned me about Nikola? It made me curious instead of afraid. If he was dangerous enough to warrant a warning, he was definitely interesting enough toinvestigate.” I smile at her, bright and grateful. “So thank you for pointing me in exactly the right direction.”
The mask slips for just a moment—long enough for me to see the flash of pure hatred that crosses her features before the practiced sympathy slides back into place.
“I’m so glad it worked out,” she says.
“Me too. I’m even more glad we’ll be working together soon.”
