The foyer of the Cyrillon Grand Hotel gleamed like a polished jewel—crystal chandeliers glittered above a marble floor so pristine it reflected the soles of designer shoes. Waiters moved in perfect rhythm, bearing silver trays with glasses of gold-tinted champagne. And in the heart of it all, stood Lucian Kael D'Amelio—flawless in a sharp obsidian tux, jaw locked, gaze sweeping the room like a hawk hunting silence.
Beside him, Elara stood tall in an off-shoulder navy-blue gown that caressed her curves with grace and mystery. Her hair was pulled into a soft knot, delicate tendrils brushing her shoulders. She looked like a painting brought to life—elegant, untouchable, and dangerously stunning.
Yet her fingers trembled lightly against the clutch she held. The room was a battlefield—every stare a bullet, every whisper a loaded gun.
"They're looking at us like we're a scandal," she muttered from the side of her mouth.
"They are," Lucian replied without blinking. "Smile like you're used to it."
She exhaled, soft but visible. This wasn't just an event; it was a test. The contract had specified appearances. This was the first.
Cameras flashed. A reporter shouted Lucian's name. Another asked Elara who designed her dress. She smiled—small, unsure, but convincing. Until she heard a voice she hadn't heard in over a year.
"Elara?"
She froze.
Her body knew before her mind did—her stomach knotted, her back stiffened.
Noah West.
The ex who had once made her believe that love meant tolerating pain. The man who had belittled her dreams, ghosted her when things got hard, and then publicly accused her of being clingy and "unambitious."
He stood across the room, holding a camera, wearing a media badge that said E! Insider Access.
Lucian's arm flexed as he noticed her stillness. "Who is he?"
Elara swallowed. "A journalist," she said. "No one important."
But Lucian's stare didn't break. He was trained to detect deception, and Elara's voice had fractured.
"I'll take care of it."
Before she could protest, Lucian was walking—calmly, powerfully. He didn't make a scene. He didn't raise his voice. He simply spoke to Noah with a look that suggested a lawsuit and blacklisting in the same breath.
Ten minutes later, Noah was gone.
Elara found herself in the garden lounge, holding onto the railing like it was the only thing tethering her to the Earth. Her eyes were glassy.
Lucian appeared beside her, holding two champagne glasses. "Drink."
"I'm fine."
He didn't reply, just extended the glass until she took it.
"Was it really that bad?" he asked softly.
Elara turned to him. "He made me feel like I was too much… then not enough. And I believed him. For a long time."
Lucian didn't respond with sympathy. That wasn't his way. Instead, he said, "He looked like someone who hates himself for what he lost."
Her throat tightened. "You don't know what he lost."
"I don't need to. He saw you tonight. He knows now."
The words caught her off guard. Lucian's tone was unreadable, but something simmered beneath.
Possession? Protection?
Whatever it was, it felt dangerously close to real.
Perfect—let's continue Chapter 5, now blending in those new emotional layers. You'll see Lucian's subtle kindness, his protective gestures masked in power, and Elara's balancing act of independence and inner vulnerability.
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The gala faded into a background blur as they stepped onto the hotel's private terrace. Strings of warm lights hung above the balcony, glowing soft gold against the navy sky. Elara clutched her glass, still thinking about Noah and the subtle way Lucian had handled it all. No drama. Just quiet annihilation.
She looked over at him. His jaw was tight, but his expression unreadable.
"You didn't have to do that," she said, voice low.
Lucian set his drink on the marble rail. "I know."
"Then why did you?"
He turned to her, and the edge of his mouth lifted—barely noticeable, but there.
"Because you're mine. Even if it's on paper." His eyes lingered on hers. "And I don't like people who try to break what's mine."
Elara's breath caught—not from fear, but something else. It was absurd how calm he was even when protective. There was no possessive outburst. Just quiet, lethal assurance.
"I can take care of myself, Lucian."
"I know," he said again, this time softer. "That's why I do."
She blinked. Her world was full of people who underestimated her, wanted to control her, or told her to wait her turn. Lucian, somehow, did none of that. He made space, but never moved her aside.
As the night wore on, he subtly shielded her from the press, kept her wine glass full, introduced her by her name—not just "my wife"—and when a client commented too long on her looks, Lucian's gaze turned ice cold until the man cleared his throat and stepped away.
By midnight, they were in his sleek black Maybach, silence wrapping around them like velvet.
"Elara," Lucian said suddenly. "Tell me about Lia Hairs and Fashion."
She blinked, startled. "You know about that?"
"I know everything about you. It's my job," he said, then glanced at her. "But I'm asking as Lucian. Not the man on paper."
She hesitated. "It's small. Just me and one staff. A few wig orders, some bridal styling. It's… crawling."
Lucian nodded once, like he'd heard enough. "I have a commercial space opening next month. You'll take the third floor. Rent-free. For one year."
Her eyes widened. "Wait, what?"
"I'll handle the permits. You focus on design and branding. Let's build it."
She stared at him. Her first instinct was to say no—she didn't want handouts. But the way he said it… there was no pity. No charity. Just belief.
"You don't have to—"
"I don't do anything I don't want to."
His voice was final. But something soft flickered in his expression. Not love. Not yet. But care. Depth.
And for the first time, Elara didn't feel like she had to fight to be seen.