The Devil’s Bride

Chapter 19:Public Display

Moore’s POV

The past couple of days has been suffocating and messing with my mind, with no human interaction. I am totally isolated from everyone and the world. Ethan has been away only returned last night for the gala today.

The dress arrived at noon, encased in a heavy, cream-colored garment bag that smelled faintly of expensive silk and cedar wood.

Mrs. Gable dropped it on the chaise lounge without a single word, leaving me alone to face it. When I pulled the zipper down, my breath caught. It was a masterpiece of haute couture, but to me, it looked like a beautifully tailored velvet cage.

It was a deep, midnight emerald silk—almost black in the shadows, but catching a dangerous, rich green hue under the light. The neck rose high, a modest, elegant mock-neck that completely covered my collarbones, and the sleeves were long, tapering tightly at my wrists. The skirt cascaded down to the floor in heavy folds that would entirely conceal the lingering, pale scabs on my feet.

It was completely modest. Demure. The picture of an elegant, aristocratic wife.

Except for the back.

When I turned it around, I realized the entire back of the gown was completely nonexistent, plunging into a sharp V that ended just above the swell of my hips. And on the front, right over my lower left abdomen, the fabric was tailored with a razor-thin, intentional illusion slit—a tiny mesh panel that would look like an avant-garde design detail to anyone else.

But to Ethan, it was a window. It sat exactly over his freshly healed initials.

My skin crawled as I put it on. As I stood in front of the vanity mirror, adjusting the skirt, the door opened.

Ethan walked in, already dressed in a bespoke black tuxedo. He didn't say a word. He simply walked up behind me, his reflection towering over mine in the glass. His eyes, dark and assessing, swept down the length of the emerald silk before settling on my face.

"Turn around," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly command.

I slowly turned to face him, my hands clenching into fists within the folds of the skirt. The mesh panel on my hip stretched slightly as I moved, the pale, healed *E.V.* briefly visible beneath the dark fabric if one looked close enough.

Ethan stepped into my space, his presence immediately crowding out the air in the room. He reached out, his long fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from my neck. His touch was cold and completely possessive.

"The Vanguard Gala requires a flawless facade tonight," he said softly, leaning down until his lips brushed against my ear, sending a chill straight down my spine. "Because throughout the entire evening, my hand will be right here."

He slid his bare hand down my bare back, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine until they rested heavily on my left hip—his palm flattening directly over the hidden brand. The heat of his hand through the thin fabric made the healed skin throb in a phantom ache.

"Every time a person speaks to you, every time a camera flashes, I will press right here," Ethan murmured, his grip tightening just enough to anchor me to him. "A reminder of exactly who you belong to when you smile for the press. If your smile wavers, I will press harder. Do you understand me?"

I swallowed the lump of humiliation in my throat, my eyes locked onto his in the mirror. "Yes."

"Good."

By the time we arrived at the event center, the annual Vanguard Gala, hosted by the Vance Foundation, was held at the crown of the city—the breathtaking Astraea Tower Sky-Lounge. The atmosphere was suffocatingly glamorous. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls exposed the entire glittering grid of the Manhattan skyline. Massive ice sculptures of soaring eagles slowly dripped into silver basins filled with Beluga caviar, and waiters in white gloves moved through the crowd carrying silver trays of vintage Dom Pérignon and gold-leafed hors d'oeuvres.

A full chamber orchestra occupied a raised velvet dais, their classical melodies drifting over the low, polished hum of hundreds of elite guests. European ambassadors, shipping magnates, Wall Street titans, and dazzling old-money socialites mingled beneath massive crystal chandeliers that cast a diamond-like glow over the room.

The moment the double doors opened and we were announced, a wave of whispers swept through the grand lounge. The flashing cameras of the press line were blinding, a synchronized roar of light.

Instantly, Ethan’s arm slid around my waist. His heavy palm settled squarely over my left hip, his thumb resting directly against the mesh panel hiding his initials. When the first flash went off, his fingers dug firmly into my skin, anchoring me.

My lips automatically stretched into a bright, flawless, practiced smile.

As we descended the grand marble steps into the crowd, the murmurs followed us like a slipstream.

"Look at her... absolutely breathtaking," a prominent Manhattan socialite whispered loudly to her circle, her eyes wide as she took in the liquid emerald silk. "She looks like a literal queen. Where on earth did he find her?"

"She’s an absolute nobody, I heard," her companion muttered back, swirling her champagne. "No family lineage to speak of. But heavens, she is flawless. They look like a royal couple."

Ethan guided me seamlessly into the center of the room, immediately surrounded by a rotating court of powerful dignitaries.

"Ethan, an absolute triumph of an evening!" smiled Julian Vance-Croft, a high-ranking French diplomat, raising his glass toward us. "The foundation has raised millions before dinner is even served. But truly, your greatest achievement tonight is standing right beside you. Your new bride is exquisitely beautiful, a true jewel."

"Thank you, Julian," Ethan replied smoothly, his voice rich with an arrogant charm that completely held the circle's attention. His hand tightened on my hip, his thumb pressing directly into the hidden brand, sending a warning jolt of pain through my abdomen. "Moore possesses a very rare, quiet elegance. I find that much more valuable than a loud pedigree."

"Oh, it's incredibly noble of you, Ethan," gushed Cynthia Sterling, a prominent old-money matriarch, stepping into our circle with a warm, blind admiration. "In a world where men of your stature only marry for corporate mergers, you chose true love. You’ve elevated this beautiful girl into a life she could have only dreamed of. It shows the sheer goodness of your character. You are the perfect gentleman."

"She knows exactly how fortunate she is, Cynthia," Ethan said, his tone deceptively warm as he glanced down at me, his eyes cold as ice beneath the charming mask. "She understands the weight of the name she carries now. Don't you, darling?"

"Every single day," I forced out, my voice smooth and perfectly melodic, though my heart was hammering violently against my ribs. "Ethan’s generosity is... boundless. I am fully aware of how lucky I am to be his wife."

As the lies moves effortlessly past my lips, Ethan’s fingers pressed deeper into my flesh, a silent, dominant approval of my performance.

For hours, the gala was a dizzying, suffocating blur. We moved from the caviar bars to the grand ballroom floor, where Ethan led me into a flawlessly executed waltz. To the hundreds of onlookers watching us glide across the floor under the crystal lights, we were the picture-perfect romance—the incredibly handsome, benevolent billionaire and his stunning, adoring code-of-silence wife. They cheered and toasted to Ethan’s "pure heart" and my "radiant fortune."

But beneath the emerald silk, every step on my healing feet was total torture, and my mind was utterly shattered by the psychological cage.

A firmer grip when a younger male tried to engage me in conversation. A soft, stroking motion when I spoke lines that pleased him. He was playing my body like an instrument, guiding my emotions and my responses through a hidden language of pain and possession.

When the clock struck midnight, Ethan finally guided me away from the lingering senators and billionaires, stepping out onto a secluded, dimly lit private balcony overlooking the roaring city below. The cool night air hit my bare back, making me shiver as the heavy noise of the orchestra faded behind the glass.

I leaned heavily against the stone balustrade, my chest heaving as I tried to ground myself.

Ethan stepped up directly behind me, his powerful chest pressing against my bare skin, blocking out the light from the gala. He didn't touch my waist this time; instead, his hands slid up to grip the stone rail on either side of me, trapping me completely within his frame.

"You did well tonight, Moore," he murmured against the sensitive skin of my neck, his voice dropping the charming public facade, turning flat, narcissistic, and entirely empty of warmth. "You heard them. They look at you and see a stunning charity case. A beautiful nobody raised out of the dirt because I chose to put my ring on your finger."

I closed my eyes, a bitter tear slipping down my cheek into the dark air. "I gave you exactly what you wanted."

"You did," Ethan agreed smoothly, his lips skimming down to the slope of my bare shoulder, his grip on the balustrade tightening. "But don't ever forget the reality of that little ballerina. Without my name, you are entirely invisible to this world. Your beauty would mean nothing in the gutters. You should be down on your knees thanking me every single day for this glamorous life I am giving you. You are absolutely nothing without me."

I stared out at the glittering skyline, a horrific, paralyzing chill settling deep into my bones. Because as much as I wanted to scream, as much as I wanted to fight him—as I stood there, physically broken, completely isolated, and hiding his mark beneath an expensive dress—I realized the trap had fully snapped shut. In a room full of powerful elites who only validated me because of him, the monster who broke me was the only thing keeping me alive.