Elara

Elara stood before her closet, scanning rows of carefully organized dresses. “Wear something nice,” he’d said, as if every piece of clothing she owned hadn’t been meticulously selected to meet his exacting standards. She pulled out a deep burgundy dress she’d been saving for their next business dinner, its silk material flowing like wine through her fingers.

Seven o’clock approached with maddening slowness. She found herself checking her appearance in every reflective surface, adjusting her hair, second-guessing her choice of jewelry. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to her reflection. “It’s just dinner with your fake husband.”

At precisely 6:55, she emerged from her room to find Damian waiting by the elevator. He wore a charcoal suit that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, his usual severe expression softened by something she couldn’t quite read.

“You look...” he paused, his eyes traveling from her face to the hem of her dress. “Appropriate.”

Elara bit back a retort. Of cour