Chapter Seventeen - Elara
The Harper Foundation gala unfolds exactly as I expected—three hundred of fashion’s most influential figures gathered in the Met’s Temple of Dendur, surrounded by ancient stone and modern wealth, all of them performing the careful choreography of an industry that thrives on both creation and destruction.
I move through the crowd like I was born to it, which in many ways, I was. I’m wearing Valentino today, a bold red that sets it apart from my usual black and grays. It hugs my hips and legs just right, showing off what I have without being too revealing.
The conversations flow around me in predictable patterns. Compliments on my resilience, carefully worded questions about my marriage, subtle probing about my future plans. I respond to each with practiced ease, painting a picture of a woman who has found not just safety but purpose in her new life.
“Marriage suits you,” observes Helena Voss, the editor-in-chief ofMétierwhose opinion can make or break careers. “You look… settled. Confident.”
“I’m doing great,” I tell her, and it’s not entirely a lie.
She nods, already calculating whether supporting my narrative will benefit her publication. “Do you have any plans to return?”
“I’m exploring some interesting opportunities. Nothing I can announce yet, but…” I let my voice trail off with just the right note of anticipation. “Let’s just say that having access to new resources opens doors I never knew existed.”
It’s a performance, but a necessary one. Every word is being recorded, not just by the journalists present but by thenetwork of gossips and influencers who will carry tonight’s conversations into tomorrow’s headlines. I need to appear confident, untouchable, exactly the kind of success story that makes Celeste’s jealousy burn hotter.
I spot her near the champagne fountain, holding court with a cluster of younger models who hang on her every word. She looks magnificent—silver hair swept into an elaborate updo, wearing a white Chanel gown that probably cost more than most people’s cars. The picture of elegance and authority.
She also looks hungry. Predatory. Like someone who’s been waiting for exactly this opportunity.
Our eyes meet across the room, and her smile is perfect—warm, delighted, just surprised enough to seem genuine. She excuses herself from her admirers and glides over with the fluid grace that once made her one of the most sought-after models in the industry.
“Elara, darling.” She embraces me with practiced precision, air-kissing both cheeks without disturbing either of our makeup applications. “How good to see you attending these events again. Two in one month! You look absolutely radiant. Marriage clearly agrees with you.”
“Thank you. You look incredible as always.” I step back, maintain exactly the right distance—close enough to suggest intimacy, far enough to preserve dignity. “I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk tonight.”
“Of course. I’ve been so worried about you since… well, since everything happened.” Her expression shifts to one of carefully calibrated concern. “I know we left things in a difficult place, but I think we’re getting back on track.”
The apology sounds genuine, but I can see calculation behind her eyes. She’s positioning herself, setting up whatever game she’s planned for tonight.
“Water under the bridge,” I tell her with practiced warmth. “Actually, I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“For the warning. About Nikola, about the dangers of his world. It made me approach everything with my eyes open instead of stumbling in blindly.” I touch my wedding ring, a gesture that’s become automatic. “Sometimes the best relationships start with complete honesty about the risks involved.”
I watch her face carefully as I speak, noting the micro-expressions that flicker across her features. Surprise at my gratitude. Confusion about where this conversation is heading. Something that might be disappointment that I’m not broken or bitter or regretful.
“I’m so glad,” she says, but her voice sounds slightly strained. “You’re… happy? Truly?”
“Blissfully. It turns out that having someone willing to protect you completely, to put your safety above everything else, is incredibly liberating.” I lean closer, lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I never realized how exhausting it was to constantly worry about my own security, my own future. Now I can focus on the things that actually matter.”
“Such as?”
“Growth. Expansion. Building something bigger than just a modeling career.” I straighten, let excitement color my voice. “I won’t bore you with the details. Now, where is my husband?”
Each word is carefully chosen to needle her insecurities, to suggest that my downfall has somehow elevated me beyondanything she’s ever achieved. I can see her processing the implications, calculating whether my success poses a threat to her own carefully maintained position.
“I think I saw him at the refreshments,” she says, and the words sound like they’re being scraped over broken glass.
We’re interrupted by a photographer—one of the society journalists whose pictures will appear in tomorrow’s style sections. “Ladies, could I get a shot? Two of fashion’s most influential figures, together again.”
I pose naturally, smile genuine and relaxed, while Celeste arranges herself with the practiced precision of someone who’s spent decades being photographed. The camera flashes several times, capturing what will appear to be a warm reunion between old friends.
I can feel the tension radiating from Celeste, can see the tightness around her eyes that suggests this encounter isn’t going according to her script.
“Excuse me for a moment,” she says once the photographer moves on. “I need to speak with someone about a project. Let’s catch up more later; I have so many questions about your new ventures.”
