ELLE
The gala is perfect.
Everything about it is designed to be perfect. The lighting is soft. The music is sophisticated. The champagne flows. And Blake and I are the centerpiece—the couple that everyone wants to photograph, to analyze, to celebrate.
His hand is on my back as we move through the crowd. It's a proprietary gesture, the kind that says *she's mine*. And the cameras eat it up. The world wants to see a man in love. The world wants to see a woman who's chosen to be with him.
So we give them what they want.
We smile together. We laugh at things that aren't funny. We look at each other with a tenderness that feels almost real. Almost.
A reporter approaches. "Blake, Elle, you two look absolutely radiant together. When did you know this was real?"
Blake's hand tightens slight
