Chapter Seventeen: The Fundraiser
980 Words
The Mercer mansion didn’t just host parties, it staged them.
By dusk, the estate had transformed into something otherworldly: chandeliers glittering like captured stars, polished marble floors reflecting every heel that dared to cross them, the air thick with perfume, champagne, and power.
Elara stood at the edge of it all, dressed in the crisp black-and-white uniform Mrs. Holloway had laid out for her. Simple, neat, invisible. That was her job tonight, to be unseen.
Except it wasn’t working.
The moment she stepped into the hall, eyes brushed over her, rich guests barely registering the difference between staff and scenery, but she felt their gaze all the same. The same old tightening in her chest returned. The old humiliation, the one she thought she’d buried.
She adjusted her tray and inhaled quietly.
“Head up,” Mrs. Holloway’s voice murmured beside her, low and stern. “You’re serving, not begging.”
Elara nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Stay away from the west balcony,” said Mrs Holloway added. “It’s for private guests only.”
That was all the warning she gave before disappearing into the current of glittering gowns and tailored suits.
The night unfolded like a painting.
Politicians, CEOs, heirs, all of them orbiting around the Mercers. Cassian was at the center, speaking easily with investors and foreign donors, his composure as immaculate as ever. Mrs. Mercer hovered nearby, her smile a blade hidden in silk.
And then there was Liam.
He shouldn’t have been here. Everyone knew he hated these events. Yet he stood near the staircase in a black suit that fit too well, collar open, drink in hand, smirk lazy but eyes… searching.
When they met hers, she looked away instantly, pretending to straighten her glasses on her tray.
He didn’t look away.
Hours slipped by in clinking glasses and hollow laughter. Elara moved like a shadow through it all, listening, memorizing, surviving.
Until she overheard them.
“She’s the new live-in, isn’t she?”
Two women, dripping in pearls, hovered by the dessert table. Their voices were soft, but their smiles were sharp.
“I heard she used to scrub floors at that little café downtown,”a blonde lady said.
“Really? How generous of the Mercers to offer charity a room.”
A titter of laughter.
Elara’s throat tightened. She turned to leave.
And froze.
Liam was standing just a few feet away, his expression unreadable.
He’d heard every word.
He moved before she could, crossing the space between them with easy arrogance. “Funny thing about charity,” he said, setting his glass down beside them. “It’s usually the people who’ve never earned anything who talk about it the loudest.”
The women blinked, caught off guard. One flushed crimson; the other faltered with a nervous laugh. “Mr. Mercer, we didn’t mean…”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Enjoy the canapés.”
They vanished in seconds.
Elara’s pulse thundered. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why? You’d rather let them walk all over you?”
“It’s not your job to defend me.”
His voice softened. “Maybe I don’t care what my job is.”
The space between them buzzed, too close, too dangerous. Someone could see. Someone would see.
“Liam,” she whispered, glancing around. “Please.”
He took a slow breath, forcing his grin back into place, but his gaze didn’t move. “You look like you want to disappear.”
“I always do,” she murmured.
He didn’t answer. But the silence said too much.
Later, when the orchestra began to play and guests moved to the ballroom, Elara slipped outside into the air. The night was cooler than she expected, the stars a quiet relief after the cold chaos inside.
She leaned against the stone railing, closing her eyes for a second.
“Didn’t Holloway tell you to stay away from the balcony?”
Her eyes flew open.
Liam leaned against the doorframe, no jacket now, tie loose, hair slightly mussed as if he’d argued with the wind.
“You followed me,” she said.
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“It is.”
He stepped closer, until the faint scent of cologne and whiskey filled the space between them. “You really think I could ignore you tonight?”
She shook her head, half laughing, half desperate. “You’re going to get me fired.”
He smiled faintly. “You think I care about rules?”
“Maybe you should start.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them stretched, fragile and electric.
Then he reached out, gently brushing his thumb over her wrist. It was nothing—bare skin, barely a touch. But it burned.
Her breath hitched.
“Elara,” he said quietly. “You keep pretending you don’t feel it. Why?”
“Because this,” she whispered, “can’t exist.”
“Tell that to the part of you that keeps looking for me.”
She didn’t have an answer for that.
His hand lingered for a heartbeat longer before he stepped back, the moment collapsing between them like something sacred and doomed.
“Go back inside,” he said finally. “Before someone sees.”
Her throat felt tight. “What about you?”
Liam’s smirk returned, but his eyes didn’t match it. “I’m already used to being seen.”
She turned to go, pulse racing, but paused at the door.
“Liam,” she said softly. “Thank you. For earlier.”
He tilted his head. “Don’t thank me. I just hate hypocrites.”
But as she walked
back into the glitter and noise, she could still feel the ghost of his touch—proof that some lines, once crossed, don’t erase.
- Writer
