Chapter 4: Public Lies, Private Wars
1396 Words
The gala unfolded in the Grand Marcellus Hotel, a place where everything smelled faintly of wealth and expectation. Gold-leaf ceilings shimmered under chandeliers, champagne flowed like water, and every guest wore their ambition heavier than their jewelry.
Celeste stood at the edge of the ballroom, her silver gown catching the light in sharp angles, her mask firmly in place. She knew what the crowd saw: a judge’s daughter, flawless and composed, a jewel polished for display. She knew what she was: a hostage dressed in diamonds.
Beside her, Lucien Valez looked carved from midnight. Black tuxedo tailored to perfection, tie knotted with ruthless precision, dark eyes unreadable. He radiated command, the kind that made men want to follow him and women want to defy him.
A photographer approached, bowing slightly as if seeking permission. “A picture, Mr. Valez? Miss Moreau?”
Lucien slid his arm around Celeste’s waist with easy ownership, pulling her close before she could step aside. The flash exploded, searing white light across her vision. Celeste smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
As the camera lowered, she leaned toward him, her lips moving in a whisper sharp enough to cut. “Remove your hand.”
Lucien didn’t move. His mouth curved near her ear, a private performance for two. “Smile wider, princess. The world’s watching.”
Her jaw tightened. She widened her smile by a fraction, even as her nails dug crescents into her palm.
The crowd clapped politely, flashes popping like gunfire.
The orchestra struck a new tune, violins sweeping, and the master of ceremonies announced the couple’s first dance. Applause rippled through the hall as Lucien extended his hand.
Celeste hesitated, her spine rigid. Then, with a practiced tilt of her head, she set her fingers in his. His grip was warm, firm, far too steady.
They moved into the waltz. He was infuriatingly good, every step precise, every turn smooth, guiding her as if she belonged to him. She hated the way her body responded, falling into rhythm despite her mind’s protests.
“You hide your rage well,” Lucien murmured, lips brushing her ear as they turned.
“You hide your arrogance poorly,” she replied, her smile never faltering.
His chuckle vibrated through her palm. “Maybe that’s why you can’t stop looking at me.”
“I look at you,” she said sweetly, “the way a surgeon studies a tumor.”
He laughed outright then, drawing glances from nearby couples. She wanted to slap him, but the music carried them forward, spinning them in perfect synchrony.
When the dance ended, applause broke out again. Lucien bowed, releasing her hand at last. Celeste turned sharply, only to freeze.
Luca Carrion stood by the champagne table, watching her.
He moved through the crowd with practiced ease, smile bright as a blade hidden in silk. “Congratulations, cousin,” he said to Lucien, though his eyes lingered on Celeste. “And to you, Miss Moreau. The city already calls you its queen.”
Celeste inclined her head politely. “How flattering.”
“Flattering?” Luca’s grin widened. “Dangerous, more like. Queens rarely live long in this city.”
Lucien’s hand brushed her back, subtle but possessive. “Careful, Luca. You’ll make her nervous.”
Luca raised his glass in mock salute. “That would require her to be afraid of me. And something tells me she isn’t.”
Celeste met his gaze evenly. “I’m not.”
The men smiled at each other, but the air between them bristled with old tension.
Celeste slipped away to the terrace later, needing air. The ballroom had grown suffocating, a sea of false laughter and sharper whispers. The cold night wrapped around her shoulders like a relief.
She leaned against the marble railing, watching the city lights scatter across the river. For a moment, she let the mask slip, jaw unclenching, breath coming faster than she wanted.
“You’ll catch a chill,” Lucien’s voice murmured behind her.
She stiffened. “Do you ever stop following me?”
He stepped closer, the scent of whiskey and smoke curling around her. “Not when you look like you’re plotting an escape.”
She turned to face him, gown brushing the stone. “And if I am?”
“Then I’d suggest better shoes.” His gaze flicked briefly to her stilettos, then back to her eyes.
She hated the small laugh that almost escaped her. She covered it with ice. “I don’t need your suggestions.”
Lucien leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “No. But you need my protection.”
Her pulse jumped. She forced her tone steady. “From who? You?”
His smile was faint, dangerous. “Especially from me.”
Before she could reply, a waiter approached with a tray of champagne. Celeste reached for a glass, but Lucien’s hand stopped her mid-air, fingers brushing hers with deliberate heat.
“Not this one,” he said softly.
She frowned. “Why?”
His eyes slid to the waiter, then back to her. “Because it isn’t safe.”
The waiter flushed, stammered, and hurried away. Celeste’s stomach tightened. She wanted to demand answers, but Lucien just sipped from his own glass, unbothered.
Later, when most of the guests were drunk on champagne and politics, Celeste found herself cornered again—this time not by Lucien, but Luca.
He blocked her path near the balcony doors, smile sharp as ever. “Care for some air, Miss Moreau?”
“I’m fine,” she said, trying to step past him.
He shifted, blocking her again. “Indulge me. I want to know, what does it feel like, marrying into the wolves? Do you sleep with one eye open already?”
Her spine stiffened. “I sleep just fine.”
“Do you?” Luca’s voice dropped, conspiratorial. “Because if I were you, I’d wonder how long until Lucien decides you’re more liability than prize.”
Her blood ran cold, but her expression didn’t shift. “And if I were you, I’d wonder how long until he decides the same about you.”
For a moment, his smile faltered. Then he laughed softly, stepping aside. “Touché, queen.”
Celeste swept past him, refusing to let her heartbeat betray her.
Lucien was waiting on the balcony, leaning against the railing. He didn’t look at her at first, just the city sprawled below. “Careful,” he murmured. “Luca’s smile is sharper than mine.”
She crossed her arms. “I can handle him.”
Lucien turned his head, gaze pinning her. “You can’t.”
Something in his tone, the certainty, the faint thread of warning, made her skin prickle. She hated how it sounded less like arrogance and more like truth.
Their silence stretched. The night hummed with distant sirens and muffled music. He leaned closer, his mouth near her ear.
“You keep slapping me in public,” he whispered, “people will think you like me.”
Her hand twitched, tempted. But she stilled it.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she whispered back.
The gala dragged on, but finally, it ended, champagne glasses abandoned, politicians spilling into limousines, the orchestra packing away their instruments.
Celeste’s father approached her, expression unreadable. He pressed a black velvet box into her hand. “You’re moving in tonight. Appearances demand it.”
She opened it. A sleek silver key gleamed under the chandelier light.
It felt heavier than iron chains.
Before she could speak, Lucien appeared at her side, plucking the box from her hand with infuriating ease. “I’ll take that.”
Her father inclined his head, satisfied, and walked away.
Celeste’s jaw clenched as Lucien gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
The limousine ride was silent. Her reflection in the tinted window looked like a stranger, too composed, too polished, eyes burning underneath.
When they reached the penthouse, Lucien unlocked the door and pushed it open. He stepped aside, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
“Ladies first.”
Celeste lifted her chin, heels clicking as she crossed the threshold. The city sprawled beneath the glass walls, vast and merciless.
The door shut behind them with a heavy click, sealing them in together.
Celeste exhaled, sharp and controlled, as realization sank in. The performance was over.
Now the war would begin.
- Writer
