CHAPTER 6 – GALA SEASON
1243 Words
The lights were everywhere. The applause was loud. And still, Liana felt like she wasn’t really there.
The moment the car door swung shut, she knew. The night was not hers. It never had been.
Not in this world.
Not with Cassian.
The flashbulbs found her before she even stepped onto the stone steps of the Marcellus Ballroom. They didn’t wait for her to smile. They never did. Cameras caught her mid-blink, half-turned, adjusting the strap of her heel. But she held onto his arm—because she was supposed to. Because it had become part of the choreography of her life.
Behind the glass doors, noise rolled out in waves: music, laughter, champagne clinks, someone's voice rising just a bit too loud with something meant to sound impressive. Everyone was already inside. Everyone seemed so sure of themselves.
And she—well, she hadn’t felt sure in a long time.
Her dress was red. Not the quiet kind. It was the kind people noticed. She remembered how the stylist had circled her like a bird of prey, pinning fabric to her waist. "Valentino," they’d said. “You’ll steal the room.”
She hadn’t argued.
She never did.
But walking beside Cassian, every step measured and stiff, Liana didn’t feel like a woman making an entrance. She felt like a signboard. Like a sentence someone else had written for her. Something loud, scripted, and not quite true.
Inside, the ballroom sparkled like something that had forgotten what warmth was. White orchids dripped from crystal vases. Everything was dipped in gold and gloss. Even the ceilings mirrored the glitter below, like excess had eaten the space whole. It was beautiful, sure—but also exhausting. Like walking into someone’s idea of perfection and realising there was no place to sit down.
She smiled through it.
She always smiled.
She smiled when the cameras caught her at bad angles. She smiled when strangers kissed her cheeks with lips that left no warmth. She smiled when someone called her *Mrs. Holt* with a tilt in their voice like she’d won something.
Cassian was made for these rooms. His voice had the right weight, his laugh dropped in exactly the right places. One hand in his pocket, the other free for handshakes and half-hugs. She followed a half-step behind. Not out of hesitation, but out of habit.
A woman swept toward them with diamonds stacked to her elbows. “Cassian, this is divine. And your wife—she’s breathtaking.”
Cassian nodded, smile like butter. “She elevates the space.”
Liana’s eyes moved past them. That compliment wasn’t for her. Not really. It was the kind you give a painting in someone’s hallway—a nice touch, a good choice. Not something living.
Dinner followed some long-winded speech about legacy and innovation. She barely heard a word. They were seated at the centre table, of course, where the lighting was just right and the camera angles clean. Her plate arrived. Goat cheese. Some kind of puree. Microgreens that looked more like decoration than food. She nudged it around with her fork.
Every time someone glanced her way, she laughed, nodded, reacted on cue. Like she’d been rehearsed. Like she was an accessory that had learned how to mimic charm.
Then the man across the table leaned forward. Thick silver hair, even thicker accent, the kind of confidence that didn’t need permission.
“So,” he said, voice loud enough for the whole table, “is the new wife as clever as she is beautiful?”
Her shoulders pulled back. Just slightly.
Cassian didn’t miss a beat. He sipped his wine like the question had been expected.
“She’s a Holt,” he said. No inflection. Just a label.
The laughter came instantly. Too fast. Like the punchline had been rehearsed.
And just like that, she disappeared again.
Her smile stayed on, of course. That was the rule. But inside, something went quiet.
The rest of dinner blurred into background noise—real estate in Abu Dhabi, new tech deals in Singapore, someone’s yacht being redesigned. Liana floated through it. Or maybe sank. It was hard to tell. All she knew was that her voice hadn’t belonged to her for hours.
They were summoned for a couple’s photo. Cassian’s hand moved to her back, just where the dress dipped. But there was no tenderness in it. Just placement. Just control.
“Smile,” he said, not looking at her.
She did.
The camera clicked.
Another lie, neatly captured.
When the night ended and the music softened into a hum, Cassian wandered off—some senator’s nephew had cornered him. Liana slipped out through a side door to the balcony.
Cold air kissed her arms. The city stretched beneath, lights blinking like the tired eyes of a machine. Everything down there felt real. Untouched. And far.
“You cold?” someone asked.
She turned.
Geneva stood behind her, dressed in black as always, holding a glass of something pale.
Liana shrugged. “A little.”
Geneva sipped, eyes scanning the skyline. “You handled it well tonight. Some women… break under this sort of thing.”
Liana smiled faintly. “I’m not some women.”
Geneva glanced at her. “No,” she said, then vanished back into the noise.
---
The drive home was silent.
Cassian didn’t speak. Didn’t look at her. His phone lit up his face while he scrolled through whatever couldn’t wait. The kind of silence that hummed—not peaceful, but heavy.
Then, without looking up, he spoke.
“Don’t wear red again.”
She blinked, eyes narrowing toward him. “Why not?”
“It’s distracting.”
She watched him. “You picked it.”
His thumb didn’t stop moving. “Doesn’t matter. You were… too visible.”
Her throat tightened. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Still scrolling. “I wanted the dress. Not the noise.”
She looked away.
Outside, her reflection stared back at her through the car window. Lipstick untouched, hair still perfect, eyes far from it. The version of herself in the glass looked like someone trying not to feel.
Her phone buzzed. No messages. Just an old note. Something she’d typed weeks ago in the middle of another sleepless night:
**Who am I becoming?**
She hadn’t known then.
She still didn’t.
---
At the house, Cassian walked in without checking if she followed. The staff opened doors like clockwork. No one said anything.
In her room, Liana peeled off the red dress herself. The zipper snagged. She tugged it down hard. The fabric pooled around her feet like a warning.
Red marks clung to her skin from the seams. Her collarbones stuck out. Her eyes… didn’t look like hers anymore.
She showered. The water burned. She didn’t flinch.
Wrapped in a towel, she sat on the bed for a long time. Listening to the silence. Trying to name the thing pressing on her chest.
*Don’t wear red. It distracts.*
She walked over to the vanity. Opened a drawer. Picked up the lipstick she hadn’t touched in months. Deep, wine-red. Her favourite, once.
She twisted it open. Looked at it.
Didn’t use it.
Just set it on the counter. Upright. Staring back at her.
The phone buzzed again. Still no new messages. Just that same note.
This time, she added one more line.
I don’t know who I’m becoming. But I know I can’t stay this.
- Writer
