Chapter 5: Humiliation and Protection
1130 Words
The days passed in a blur.
Fittings. Interviews. Meetings.
Everywhere Elara went, Ares Blackwood loomed beside her — a shadow in a tailored suit. Cold. Silent. Unreadable.
He spoke only when necessary. Offered only clipped instructions. And touched her only when the cameras demanded it.
To the world, they were flawless.
The perfect couple.
An empire built on elegance.
But Elara felt like a porcelain doll wrapped in silk and suffocated by rules.
She played her part.
She smiled when introduced. She laughed when prompted. She wore every hand-picked outfit and walked a step behind him like a loyal ghost.
And she hated it.
She hated how she had started to notice the small things about him. The way he pinched the bridge of his nose when he was tired. The way his jaw flexed when something displeased him. The faint scar along his temple that only showed when the light hit just right.
She hated that she had memorized him.
And she hated herself more for the way her pulse quickened when he so much as brushed her hand in public.
Tonight was another test.
A charity auction.
High society’s favorite battlefield — where wealth was flaunted, alliances whispered, and daggers hidden behind polite grins.
Elara tugged nervously at the hem of her silver gown as the car approached the venue. The dress shimmered in the low light, clinging to her like water. Elegant. Expensive. Everything she wasn’t used to.
“Smile when necessary,” Ares said from beside her, not looking up from his phone.
“And remember,” he added coolly, “you represent me now.”
Not yourself. Not your name. Only me.
The car door opened.
Ares stepped out first, once again greeted by a storm of cameras and polite chaos.
Then — he turned. Always composed. Always controlled.
He offered his hand.
Elara slid hers into his, her fingers trembling slightly.
His grip tightened fractionally. A warning. A tether.
Inside, the ballroom glittered with chandeliers and soft music. Laughter floated in the air like perfume. Diamonds sparkled on wrists. Champagne flowed in fountains.
And every eye turned to them.
That’s her?
The new Mrs. Blackwood?
She looks… ordinary.
Elara heard it all, even if it wasn’t spoken aloud.
She lifted her chin higher.
She would not break tonight.
⸻
The night dragged on in waves of meaningless conversation.
Ares moved through the crowd like a king.
Nodding to politicians. Shaking hands with tycoons. Accepting praise with a smile that never reached his eyes.
Elara stayed close. She smiled when introduced, laughed at jokes she didn’t understand, and sipped champagne she didn’t want.
She was a painting in a gilded frame.
Until—
“Well, if it isn’t the little charity case,” a voice cut through the music like a scalpel.
Elara stiffened.
She turned — and her stomach dropped.
Isabelle Crane.
Daughter of a hotel magnate.
Heiress.
And if the rumors were true, one of Ares’s past… entertainments.
Isabelle was stunning in a red gown that hugged every curve. Her dark hair gleamed, and her smile was razor-sharp.
“You clean up nicely, darling,” Isabelle said with mock sweetness, eyes gleaming like a snake in the sun. “But tell me — how much did he pay your family to take you off their hands?”
The words were a slap.
Elara felt her face flush. Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass.
Around them, polite laughter bubbled behind hands.
Her ears rang.
“Did he buy you that dress too?” Isabelle asked, feigning concern. “Or did you find it on sale next to the clearance shoes?”
The cruelty hit harder than she expected.
Because she had tried.
She had spent hours in fittings. Had studied the etiquette Ares’s assistant shoved at her. Had tried to be enough.
And now she was standing in a room full of strangers, being reduced to nothing by a woman who knew exactly how to wound.
Elara opened her mouth — to defend herself, to say something, anything —
But she didn’t have to.
Because suddenly, an arm slid around her waist.
Firm.
Protective.
Ares.
He pulled her back against him, his body a wall of strength and fury.
His eyes locked on Isabelle’s with a calm so dangerous it made the air crackle.
“I see some people still confuse jealousy with wit,” he said softly.
Isabelle’s smile faltered.
She opened her mouth — but no words came out.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Ares added, voice still low, still velvet-wrapped steel. “And if you ever insult my wife again, I’ll ensure no event in this city will ever allow you past the door.”
Isabelle’s expression cracked — just for a second — before she spun on her heel and vanished into the crowd.
The ballroom seemed to inhale.
And exhale.
Ares didn’t let her go until they reached a quieter corner near the garden terrace.
Only then did he release her.
Elara took a shaky breath.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” he said, interrupting.
His eyes were hard. His jaw clenched.
“Because you are my wife. And no one — no one — touches what belongs to me.”
There it was again.
Belongs.
She should’ve hated the word.
But what she felt was far more dangerous than resentment.
Because for the first time, someone had defended her.
Not pitied her. Not ignored her.
Defended her.
And not just anyone.
Ares Blackwood.
⸻
Back at the penthouse, Elara peeled off the gown with shaking fingers. She stood barefoot in the dark, staring at the glittering skyline, trying to make sense of the emotions clawing their way through her.
Anger.
Confusion.
Something dangerously close to longing.
She heard the faint creak of a door behind her.
She didn’t turn.
She didn’t need to.
She felt his presence like static.
Ares walked closer, stopping just behind her.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Because no one humiliates my wife,” he said simply.
“You keep saying that,” she whispered. “That I’m yours. That I belong to you. But do you ever think about what I want?”
Silence.
Then —
“I don’t care what you want, Elara,” he said.
It should’ve crushed her.
But then his voice softened — so low she almost missed it.
“I care that you’re safe.”
He walked away before she could respond.
And this time, it wasn’t his silence that broke her.
It was her own heart.
Because somewhere along the line…
She had started to care.
And that — more than anything — was the most dangerous humiliation of all.
⸻
- Writer
