The limousine pulled up to the red carpet. The flashes were blinding, a strobe-light assault that turned the night into a disjointed series of white explosions.
Barron stepped out first. He adjusted his jacket, ensuring the bulk of the ankle monitor was hidden by the cut of his trousers. He turned and extended a hand into the dark interior of the car.
It was a performance. Everything was a performance.
Elza's hand placed into his. Her skin was cool. She stepped out, and for a second, the screaming paparazzi went quiet.
"Who is that?" someone shouted.
Elza didn't shrink. She took Barron's arm, her grip firm. She lifted her chin, presenting a profile of icy indifference to the cameras.
Barron felt a tremor in her hand. She was terrified. But she was holding it together.
"Don't pass out on me," he muttered through a fixed smile, leaning close to her ear. "I don't carry dead weight."
Elza turned her head slightly. Her eyes met his. She took her index finger and drew a small, sharp line across his palm. Stop.
Barron's eyebrows shot up. The audacity.
They walked up the stairs. Richard Schmidt, Elza's father, was waiting at the entrance. He looked through Barron and focused entirely on Elza.
"You look... useful," Richard said. It was the highest compliment he could give an asset.
Elza's expression didn't flicker.
"Richard," Barron interjected, stepping slightly in front of Elza. "I saw your stock took a dive today. Maybe focus on your liquidity instead of my wife's dress."
Richard's face tightened. "Watch yourself, Drake. You're swimming with sharks tonight."
"I am the shark," Barron replied smoothly.
They moved into the ballroom. It was a sea of silk and jewels. Clotilde was holding court near the champagne fountain, Preston Hayes by her side.
"Sister!" Clotilde called out, her voice carrying over the music. "You finally made it."
Preston looked Elza up and down. His gaze was oily. "Marriage suits you, Elza. Though I hear the conversation is a bit one-sided."
Elza felt bile rise in her throat. She stepped closer to Barron, instinctively seeking cover.
Barron felt her move. He looked at Preston with cold, dead eyes. "Keep your eyes on your own balance sheet, Hayes. Before you lose that too."
The tension was palpable. A circle had formed around them.
Then, a gasp rippled through the crowd.
Bianca, Clotilde's best friend, appeared at the top of the grand staircase.
She was wearing a black velvet dress. High neck. Long sleeves.
It was identical to Elza's.
Except Bianca's dress was covered in Swarovski crystals. They glittered under the chandeliers, flashy and aggressive.
"Oh my god," Clotilde gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise. "Bianca! You and Elza are matching!"
Bianca descended the stairs, beaming. She spun around, the crystals catching the light. "Well, not exactly matching," Bianca laughed, eyeing Elza's plain dress. "Mine is the Starry Night edition. Elza, honey, did you get the budget version? It looks so... empty."
The crowd tittered. The narrative was set instantly: The rich, vibrant original versus the sad, cheap knockoff.
Barron's jaw clenched. He looked down at Elza. He expected her to be crying. He expected her to run.
Elza was perfectly still. She reached out and took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. She took a sip, her eyes fixed on Bianca with a look of absolute boredom.
She wasn't embarrassed. She was waiting.
