Chapter Ten – The Gala
1383 Words
By evening, the Mercer estate was no longer a house. It was a stage.
Floodlights washed the gardens in gold, and rows of luxury cars rolled up the drive, engines purring like predators at rest. Guests spilled out in shimmering gowns and crisp tuxedos, laughter rising above the music drifting from the ballroom. The air smelled of roses and rain-polished stone.
Inside, chandeliers blazed, scattering light across marble floors. The dining hall glittered with crystal, every glass rim catching fire from the candles. Staff wove between guests like shadows, trays balanced with precision. Elara moved among them, her black uniform starched to silence, her nerves humming beneath the surface.
It was dazzling, dizzying yet nothing prepared her for the sight that followed.
The Mercers entered together.
Cassian was as she expected. Immaculate, controlled, every button in place. His tuxedo was cut with restraint, his hair neatly combed back, his gaze sharp but contained. He carried silence with him like armor, and people nodded with quiet respect as he passed.
But Liam….
Elara almost forgot to breathe.
Gone was the unruly boy with his half-buttoned shirts and careless grin. Tonight, Liam was polished into something dangerously perfect. His tuxedo fit him like a second skin, black silk glinting with the light. A bow tie framed his jawline, sleek and deliberate, while his hair, tamed, slicked back with precision, exposed cheekbones and eyes that gleamed sharper than emeralds under glass.
The crowd reacted instantly. Heads turned, conversations broke mid-sentence, laughter swelled where Liam walked. Men clasped his shoulder like an equal, women tilted closer, drawn to the heat in his smile. He did not just enter the room, he claimed it, the chandeliers seeming to shine brighter in his orbit.
.
Elara steadied herself against the edge of her tray, fingers tightening on the stem of a champagne flute. She told herself to breathe, to keep moving, to focus on the work. But her eyes betrayed her, flicking toward him again and again, each glance catching on the impossible refinement of him.
And then she felt another gaze.
Cassian.
He sat at the far end of the dining table, posture perfect, eyes cool and unreadable. More than once, she caught him watching her, not in the hungry way guests looked at each other, but in a way that was unsettled, assessing, deliberate, like he saw what she was trying so hard to hide.
She dropped her gaze each time, the flush in her neck hot enough to burn.
Hours stretched in music and movement. Guests waltzed across the ballroom floor, gowns sweeping in arcs of jewel tones. Liam led partners one after another, his grace a revelation. He moved with an elegance that made him untouchable, laughter trailing after him like perfume.
Elara carried trays from the dining room to the kitchen, keeping her head down, though her pulse betrayed her. She told herself it was the music, the endless hours, the shimmer of the chandeliers. But it wasn’t.
It was him.
The kitchen was empty, mainly because all hands were on deck. Elara ducked inside with an empty tray, shoulders loosening in relief. Here, at least, the air smelled of roasted meats and soap instead of champagne and perfume.
She set the tray down, pulled her gloves tighter, and reached for a stack of dishes.
“Cinderella.”
She froze.
Liam leaned casually against the counter, tuxedo jacket unbuttoned now, bow tie loosened but not discarded. His hair still gleamed under the yellow kitchen lights, not a strand out of place despite the hours. Even here, surrounded by clatter and grease, he looked like he belonged to another world entirely.
Her breath caught, traitorously sharp.
“You’re not supposed to be back here,” she managed, turning toward the sink.
He grinned, that same dangerous glint from the ballroom still alive in his eyes. “Neither are you, technically. This is supposed to be your night off, isn’t it?”
She shot him a look over her shoulder, trying to summon steel. “It’s never my night off, I told you I was assigned to work at the gala.”
Liam tilted his head, studying her as if she were another glass of champagne he was debating whether to drink. “Funny. Out there, you looked like you belonged, more than half the guests.”
Heat rushed to her face. She plunged her hands into the dishwater, the clink of porcelain her only shield. “You should go back. They’ll be looking for you.”
“Maybe.” He pushed off the counter, taking a step closer. “But right now, I’d rather be here.”
Her pulse hammered. She didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t let him see.
But she knew, without looking, that he was smiling.
Elara scrubbed at a plate like her life depended on the streak vanishing. The steam curled around her face, giving her an excuse for the heat rising in her cheeks.
Liam didn’t move away. He leaned against the prep table, his presence filling the room as easily as he had filled the ballroom.
“You know,” he said lazily, “you nearly dropped your tray when I walked in.”
Her hands stilled. “I did not.”
“You did.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if confiding in her. “For a second, I thought you were going to faint. Was it my devastating good looks, or the tux?”
Elara gritted her teeth and whispered. “It was the weight of the tray, do you have to be so f*****g annoying.”
“Mm.” His grin widened. “So you’re saying I had nothing to do with it?”
She risked a glance at him and instantly regretted it. Up close, he was sharper, more dangerous than he had looked under the chandeliers. The loosened bow tie, the gleam of his slicked hair, the faint scent of cedar and champagne clinging to him, he was elegance undone, and it rattled her in ways she didn’t have words for.
“You should go,” she whispered, eyes darting back to the sink. “Someone will notice you’re missing.”
He didn’t move. His reflection hovered in the steel of the faucet, green eyes watching her like he could see every frantic thought running through her head.
“Let them notice,” he said softly. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
The words weren’t teasing. Not entirely.
Her breath caught, and she hated herself for it. She gripped the plate tighter, water dripping down her wrist. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” His voice was velvet now, low and dangerous. He leaned just enough that the warmth of him brushed against her air, his sleeve grazing the damp edge of her glove. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, Elara James. Spoiled Mercer boy. Trouble. The storm you can ignore if you just keep scrubbing dishes long enough.”
Her throat went dry.
“But here’s the thing,” Liam murmured, his grin flickering like a flame. “Storms don’t wait to be ignored. They break the windows. They come inside.”
The kitchen door banged open.
“Elara!” Mrs. Kirkland’s voice cracked like a whip. She stood in the doorway, eyes narrowing when they fell on Liam. “What are you doing back here?.”
Liam’s smile snapped back into its easy, careless shape. “Stealing a midnight snack,” he said smoothly, plucking an apple from the counter as if it had been his plan all along.
Mrs. Kirkland sniffed, jerking her chin at Elara. “Hurry up. The last round of glasses is waiting.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Elara murmured, grateful for something to break the charge in the air.
When the door swung shut again, she dared a glance at Liam. He was already halfway to the exit, tossing the apple lightly in his hand. But just before he disappeared, he looked back at her, that dangerous grin softened into something she couldn’t name.
“Careful, Cinderella,” he said. “You might just
start liking storms.”
And then he was gone, leaving only the echo of his words and the frantic beat of her heart.
- Writer
