The Vane Arrangement

The Lions Den

The Grand Ballroom of the Fullerton Hotel was a sea of champagne, silk, and whispered scandals. As the heavy oak doors swung open, the room didn't just go quiet—it inhaled.

Elara felt the weight of a hundred diamond-encrusted gazes. She instinctively tried to shrink back, but a firm, warm hand settled on the small of her back. The heat of Julian’s palm seeped through the thin silk of her dress, grounding her.

"Chin up," he murmured, his voice barely a breath against her hair. "You aren't a guest, Elara. You’re the prize."

"I feel like a target," she whispered back, her heart performing a frantic tap-dance.

"In this room, they’re the same thing."

They moved through the crowd like a single unit. Julian played the part of the devoted fiancé with terrifying precision. He steered her toward a group of elderly men in sharp suits—the board of directors. Elara played her role, offering polite smiles and scripted anecdotes about their "whirlwind romance" in Paris.

But the real test came when a tall, elegant woman with hair like spun silver intercepted them. Madam Vane. Julian’s grandmother didn't look at Elara; she looked through her.

"Julian," the woman said, her voice like cracking ice. "I didn't realize your tastes had become so... eclectic."

Elara felt Julian’s fingers tighten slightly against her waist—a protective twitch he probably didn't even realize he’d made.

"Grandmother," Julian said, his tone perfectly neutral. "I believe you’ve met Elara. She’s the only woman in Singapore who hasn't asked me for a favor yet. I found it refreshing."

Madam Vane finally turned her predatory gaze to Elara. "A favor? No. Girls like this don't ask for favors. They ask for everything."