Chapter 4: The Perfect Lie
1626 Words
The gown clung to her body like a second skin—sleek crimson silk that shimmered under the soft glow of the walk-in closet’s recessed lights. Its plunging neckline left little to the imagination, tracing a path down her chest with bold, unapologetic grace. Elira stared at her reflection, the woman in the mirror poised between defiance and uncertainty. Was she dressing for war or seduction? Maybe it was both.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they brushed along the curve of her hip. “This isn’t me,” she murmured, voice barely audible.
Behind her, the soft scrape of footsteps announced Damien’s presence. He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark eyes scanning her with unyielding intensity. “That’s the point,” he said simply.
His gaze roamed over her form unapologetically, measuring, assessing. “Tonight isn’t about who you were. It’s about who you need to become.”
Elira turned slowly, the slit of the gown sliding high up her thigh, revealing more skin than she’d ever dared to show in public. “You mean your perfect wife.”
Damien’s jaw clenched, his voice low and measured. “I mean my shield. We’re attending a political gala. The people there are like wolves. They’ll smell fear if you give them the chance.”
She swallowed hard, a shiver of vulnerability threatening to betray her. “And if I refuse to play dress-up?”
His eyes darkened, voice tightening. “Then we both lose.”
The blunt truth cut deeper than any threat. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was survival—for both of them.
He stepped forward, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket and extending it toward her. “Here.”
With hesitant fingers, she opened the box to reveal a necklace—a delicate white gold chain holding a deep red ruby that gleamed like a drop of blood. Expensive. Dangerous.
“Let me guess,” she said, lips curling into a wary smile. “Part of the costume?”
Damien moved behind her, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he fastened the necklace around her neck. His fingers brushed her skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
“Not a costume,” he whispered close to her ear. “A warning.”
She met his eyes in the mirror, searching for meaning. “To who?”
His gaze locked with hers, unwavering. “Everyone.”
The gala unfolded within the grand ballroom of a prestigious hotel in Bonifacio Global City. Marble columns soared to the ceiling, crystal chandeliers scattered sparkling light like stars caught in glass. A crimson carpet stretched before the entrance, rolled out for the country’s elite—political dynasties, tech magnates, media moguls—all gathered in one place, swirling wine in their glasses and baring smiles like predators revealing sharpened teeth.
As the car doors opened, bursts of camera flashes erupted around them. Damien’s hand found Elira’s, his grip firm yet reassuring. “Smile like you belong,” he murmured through clenched teeth.
“I don’t,” she admitted, heart pounding.
“Then fake it better.”
Photographers called out their names, voices blurring into a cacophony that rang in her ears. Every gaze felt like a judge’s verdict, every whispered comment a challenge. She clung tightly to Damien’s arm as they crossed the threshold, her heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor like gunshots echoing in a silent warzone.
Inside, the air was thick with expensive perfume, unspoken ambitions, and hidden agendas. A string quartet played an elegant melody, light and forgettable, failing to mask the undercurrent of tension that hummed through the crowd.
“You’re late,” came a sharp voice, cutting through the haze.
A woman stepped forward—her perfectly arched brows and an icy smile made her look like a queen surveying her court. Her dress was a masterpiece, worth more than Elira’s entire wardrobe.
“Traffic,” Damien replied smoothly, voice calm and steady as steel.
The woman’s gaze flicked to Elira, cold and appraising. “And this must be your… surprise?”
“Elira,” Damien said, voice coated in silk but edged steel, “my wife.”
The woman’s smile never reached her eyes. “How charming. I never pegged you for a type, Damien.”
Elira’s jaw tightened but she forced a smile, biting back the sting. “He doesn’t have one. That’s why he married me.”
Damien’s lips twitched—just barely—but it was there. A crack in the facade.
They mingled—or rather, Damien mingled while Elira played her part, the role she had been trained to perform. She smiled politely, nodded at the right moments, kept her voice light and her mind razor-sharp. She memorized names, echoed phrases, and laughed at jokes that landed flat. But beneath the practiced calm, her skin crawled.
Every man in the room measured her like a prize to be claimed. Every woman viewed her as a rival to be dismantled. The event felt like an auction where power was the only currency, and everyone was bidding with their lives.
Seeking refuge, she slipped out onto the balcony. The cool night air rushed over her, fingers trembling as they gripped the railing.
“Careful,” a voice warned from the shadows. “Fall from here, and your pretty story ends.”
She whirled around to face a man standing just a few feet away. Older than Damien, with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that never quite reached his calculating eyes.
“Elira, right?” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Senator Eladio Navarro. Damien’s oldest friend—and his fiercest rival.”
She nodded stiffly. “Pleasure.”
He stepped closer, invading her space. “Funny thing—Damien never mentioned you. I keep track of his… attachments.”
“We keep a low profile,” she replied coolly.
His eyes glittered with amusement. “That’s one way to put it. Just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” she said firmly. “Do you?”
He laughed, a slow, dangerous sound, then turned away, leaving his words lingering like poison.
Damien found her minutes later, his expression unreadable.
“You okay?”
She faced him squarely. “What exactly am I walking into?”
He hesitated, then finally said, “People like Navarro… they’re why my father’s dead. Why I have to fight every day.”
Her brow furrowed. “What happened?”
Damien’s jaw clenched. “Navarro framed him. Ruined our business. Broke my mother. He wears a mask of charm, but beneath it… he’s a monster.”
Elira’s breath caught. This was more than politics.
This was personal.
She stepped closer. “You think marrying me will hurt him?”
His eyes darkened. “You’re his blood.”
Her heart stopped.
“What?”
He lowered his voice, voice tight with something she couldn’t place. “He doesn’t know it. But I do.”
Elira stared, stunned. “What are you saying?”
“You’re not just some girl from nowhere,” Damien said. “You’re the hidden daughter of Eladio Navarro.”
The room spun beneath her.
“No—”
“Yes,” he said, voice cold and certain. “I had you investigated the moment I saw you at that café. You look like your mother—his secret.”
Elira shook her head in denial.
“Listen to me,” Damien said, stepping closer. “This marriage is the perfect weapon.”
Her mind reeled. Every lost memory, every shadow of her past, suddenly made sense.
“You married me to hurt him.”
His eyes softened for the first time. “At first, yes.”
“And now?”
His voice cracked. “Now… I don’t know.”
The ride home was quiet. Elira curled against the car door, watching the city lights blur past like distant stars. Damien remained silent, the weight between them palpable.
When they reached the penthouse, Damien closed the door behind them. “Say something.”
She met his gaze, fire burning in her eyes. “You used me.”
“I saved you.”
“No,” she whispered, voice trembling with rage and pain. “You bought me. You used my brother’s illness. You used me—for your vendetta.”
Damien’s face hardened. “Now you know the truth.”
Tears stung her eyes but she refused to let them fall. “You think this is power? Marrying your enemy’s daughter and parading her around like a trophy?”
“I think this is war,” he shot back.
She took a step toward him, fury lighting every nerve. “Then don’t be surprised if your weapon turns on you.”
Damien didn’t move, but something flickered in his expression—regret? Or something darker?
“Elira—”
“Don’t.” She shook her head, chest heaving. “Don’t say my name like it means anything to you.”
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, the storm barely contained in his breath.
“I never planned to feel anything,” he said quietly. “But I do.”
She stared, raw and shaking. “You don’t even know who I am.”
“I do now.”
And then, silence.
The tension snapped like a taut wire.
She moved first, turning away—but his hand caught her wrist. Not rough. Not demanding. Just… holding.
“Elira,” he whispered, voice low and filled with pain. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
She closed her eyes, heart breaking. “Too late.”
- Writer
