“Working together?”
“Didn’t you hear? Nikola’s expanding into fashion investment. Nothing too flashy, just acquiring companies that align with our values.” I lean closer, voice dropping to a conspirative whisper. “He asked me to identify promising designers who might benefit from backing by someone with… let’s call it substantial resources.”
Another lie, but one designed to suggest that I now have access to the kind of capital that could reshape the industry landscape. The kind of power that Celeste has always craved but never possessed.
“Of course, we’ll be very selective about partnerships. Nikola has strong feelings about loyalty, about surrounding ourselves with people who genuinely want us to succeed.” I straighten, smile warming. “Enough about business. Tell me what you’ve been working on. I feel like we have so much catching up to do.”
The next twenty minutes pass in a carefully choreographed dance. Celeste speaks about her projects, all minor, all struggling for relevance in an industry that’s moved beyond her sphere of influence. I respond with enthusiasm that gradually shifts into condescension, praising her efforts inways that subtly highlight how small they are compared to the opportunities I’m describing for myself.
Every word is calculated to deepen the wound I opened with my resurrection. I am not the broken woman she expected to find. I am not the cautionary tale she helped create. I am stronger, more successful, more protected than I was before she tried to destroy me.
Slowly, beautifully, I watch her realize that her betrayal didn’t eliminate me—it elevated me.
“I should circulate,” I finally say, glancing at my watch. “Early morning tomorrow, and you know how Nikola worries if I stay out too late.”
“Of course. Take care of yourself, darling.”
“Always do.”
I kiss her cheek one more time, breathing in the expensive perfume that can’t quite mask the sour scent of disappointment beneath. Then I turn and walk away, feeling her eyes burning into my back with the intensity of everything she’s failed to accomplish.
The exit is perfectly orchestrated. The moment I step outside the gallery, the paparazzi swarm—a wall of flashing cameras and shouted questions that would have terrified me a month ago. Tonight, I face them head-on.
“Elara! How does it feel to be back?”
“Incredible,” I call back, pausing to let them capture the perfect shot. “Like coming home.”
“Any truth to the rumors about your marriage being arranged?”
“Only if you consider falling in love an arrangement.” I laugh, bright and genuine-sounding. “Sometimes the best things happen when you least expect them.”
“What’s next professionally?”
“Big things. Can’t say more yet, but… big things.”
I step toward the waiting car. It’s sleek, black, and expensive enough to suggest exactly the kind of backing I’ve been implying all evening. The driver holds the door, and I slide inside with the fluid grace of someone who’s never doubted her place in this world.
As we pull away from the curb, I catch a glimpse of Nikola in the shadows across the street. Not hiding, exactly, but positioned where he can see everything without being seen. Our eyes meet for just a moment through the tinted glass, and I see something that might be approval in his expression.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel powerful rather than protected. I’m back in the public eye, but on my terms, with my narrative, supported by resources that make me untouchable rather than vulnerable.
The game has changed. Tonight, I’m finally playing to win.
Chapter Fourteen - Nikola
The penthouse is dark when I return, only the faint glow of the city filtering through bulletproof glass. It’s past three in the morning, and every muscle in my body aches with the particular exhaustion that comes from violence without resolution.
The raid was a failure. Clean, surgical, executed with precision… and completely fucking useless.
The warehouse was empty except for evidence that someone had cleared out hours before we arrived. Marcus Hale’s people are ghosts, and we’re chasing shadows while they tighten the noose around everything I’ve built.
The bullet graze on my arm throbs with each heartbeat, a superficial wound that shouldn’t matter but does. It’s a reminder that I’m not invincible, that the walls I’ve constructed around Elara aren’t as impenetrable as I need them to be.
I strip off my jacket carefully, feeling the fabric pull against the makeshift bandage one of my men applied in the field. It needs to be cleaned properly, stitched maybe, but the thought of going to the medical floor and explaining how I let someone get close enough to tag me feels like admitting defeat.
Better to handle it myself. Quick vodka rinse, butterfly bandages, ignore it until it heals.
The bedroom door is closed but not locked; Elara’s small rebellion against my security protocols. I start toward the bathroom, planning to deal with the wound before she wakes and asks questions I don’t want to answer.
