Breaking the mask
1273 Words
Elara had never felt so visible and invisible all at once.
Everywhere she went, eyes followed her; some filled with curiosity, others with disdain. In every store window, every glowing phone screen, and every suspicious smile, she saw a version of herself reflected, distorted through the lens of gossip and speculation.
It was only her third day as Cassian Vale’s public fiancée, and she was already drowning in headlines.
“Cassian Vale’s Cinderella or Just a Convenient Lie?”
“Insider Sources Claim the Engagement Is a Cover-Up Deal”
“Elara Quinn: Angel in Public or Gold-Digger in Disguise?”
She scrolled through her phone in the penthouse living room, curled into a corner of the ivory leather sectional. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of traffic thirty stories below and the occasional ding of another cruel notification.
Each comment cut deeper.
“She's not even that pretty.”
“Probably slept her way to the top.”
“Cassian’s clearly losing his edge.”
Elara blinked back angry tears.
They didn’t know her. They didn’t know the sacrifices she’d made, the quiet humiliation of selling herself at an auction, the weight of her father’s disgrace and debt. But the world didn’t want the truth, it wanted a scandal.
And she had walked right into one.
By early afternoon, Cassian messaged her.
“2 PM. My office.”
No greeting. No warmth. Just instructions.
Elara threw on a tailored navy dress from the new designer wardrobe Cassian’s assistant had forced on her and tied her curls into a loose chignon. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment before applying makeup, not to feel pretty, but to wear a mask.
If she was going to survive this, she needed to look untouchable.
The Vale International building loomed over downtown like a glass-and-steel fortress. Inside, the lobby buzzed with silent tension; corporate efficiency at its most intimidating.
Everyone wore black or gray, and no one smiled.
A security escort led her up to the 57th floor.
Cassian's office, walled with floor-to-ceiling windows, was flooded with light. He stood behind his obsidian desk, reviewing a folder, sleeves rolled up, and tie loosened.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
“It’s 1:58.”
“That’s late in my world.”
Elara stiffened. “Then I’ll start arriving early.”
He finally looked at her, dark eyes unreadable.
“I assume you’ve seen the media storm.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I’m trying not to fall apart,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. “Not that anyone seems to care.”
Cassian studied her for a long beat, then pushed a heavy folder across the desk.
“Media strategy. You’ll stick to the script. No improvising.”
She opened the folder. Inside were photos, quotes, sample answers, even fake love letters to “leak.”
“This is manipulative,” she said.
“This is survival,” he replied coolly. “You wanted protection. This is what it looks like.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
“A clean public image, an untouched business reputation, and no rumors tying me to Geneva anymore.”
At the mention of Geneva, Elara’s stomach turned.
“She hates me.”
“She hates everyone she can’t control,” he replied, walking around the desk. “Don’t take it personally.”
“I’m not sure if that’s possible.”
Cassian’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, typed something quickly, then looked back at her.
“You’ll be accompanying me to a charity brunch tomorrow. Wear white. Smile. Speak when spoken to.”
“And if I don’t?” she asked.
His eyes darkened.
“Then the contract is void. And everything that comes with it...gone.”
A chill settled into her bones.
“Do you always control people like this?”
Cassian tilted his head.
“Only the ones who agree to be controlled.”
The next day, Elara stepped out of the car in a cream-white sheath dress that clung perfectly to her frame. The charity brunch was held at the Amara Hotel’s rooftop garden; a glittering affair of elite guests, silent waiters, and too many eyes.
She walked beside Cassian, who looked effortlessly powerful in a charcoal-gray suit. People parted around them like water, each step rehearsed and perfect.
But the perfection cracked the moment Geneva Sinclair arrived.
She swept toward them in a blood-red gown, her smirk sharp enough to cut.
“Elara,” Geneva purred, taking a sip from her champagne flute. “You clean up so… adequately.”
Elara smiled coolly. “I suppose practice makes perfect.”
“Pity Cassian doesn’t appreciate perfection anymore.” Geneva turned to him. “She’s charming, in a rustic way.”
Before Elara could reply, Cassian’s voice cut through the conversation.
“She’s more than charming. And far more intelligent than most people in this room.”
Geneva’s smile faltered, just briefly, before she turned and slinked away.
Elara blinked.
Cassian had defended her. In public. Unprompted.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Don’t misunderstand,” he replied. “Geneva needed a reminder that she doesn’t control me either.”
Still, Elara couldn’t help the way her heart skipped.
That night, Elara couldn’t sleep.
Geneva’s parting words haunted her.
“You don’t know what you’ve signed up for, darling. Cassian Vale destroys everything he touches.”
She wandered the penthouse until she found herself in Cassian’s study. It was lined with rare books, family portraits, and dark wood. A sanctuary built by a man who didn’t trust the outside world.
She ran her fingers across the spines, stopping when one book shifted oddly. Behind it, a thin black folder tumbled to the floor.
She picked it up and opened it.
Her own name stared back at her.
Elara Quinn. Age 20. Law student. Academic standing. Auction number. Financial history.
And at the bottom, "Selected by Cassian Vale. Pre-approved three days prior."
Her breath caught.
He had chosen her before the auction even started.
She felt the air shift behind her.
Cassian stood in the doorway, silent.
“You were watching me before the auction.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He walked in slowly, his voice unreadable.
“Because I don’t take risks. Especially not with people.”
“So I’m a project to you?”
“No. You were the only one who met what I needed.”
Her throat burned. “So it was never about the gala. You had already decided.”
He looked at her for a long time.
“You were smart, clean, desperate, but not broken. And you don’t fall easily.”
“What makes you so sure?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Because I’ve been watching.”
Silence thickened between them. Then, unexpectedly, Cassian took a step forward.
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch slow and deliberate.
“You’re not weak, Elara. That’s why this works.”
Her heart thundered.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because if you’re going to wear my name, I want you to understand what that means.”
“And what does it mean?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped even closer, so close she could feel the heat of his breath.
Then he leaned in, paused at the edge of her lips, and whispered,
“It means I own the narrative. And you, Elara Quinn, are no longer just a chapter. You’re the headline.”
- Writer
