Chapter 12: The Gala Game

The Royal Empire Hotel ballroom glowed beneath crystal chandeliers, a stage set for the elite of the film industry. Adrian Blackwell’s annual entertainment gala was always the highlight of the season — a night where careers were made, investments were sealed, and every ambitious actress dreamed of catching his eye.

Elena adjusted the strap of her understated gown in the limousine, deliberately choosing something elegant but muted. The champagne silk clung gracefully to her figure but had no designer label to flaunt — at least, not one anyone could recognize. If anyone expected her to arrive dripping in jewels, she was happy to disappoint them. Attention was the last thing she wanted tonight.

Adrian stepped out first, sleek and commanding in a tailored black suit. The moment he appeared, photographers went wild, shouting his name. When he offered his hand, Elena took it lightly, stepping into the storm of flashbulbs.

“Mr. Blackwell! Mrs. Blackwell! Is this your first gala together?”

“Mrs. Blackwell, who are you wearing?”

“Is your dress custom-made?”

Elena smiled serenely, answering nothing, and let Adrian’s cold presence usher her past the shouting reporters into the glittering ballroom.

Inside, the temperature seemed to drop several degrees as eyes turned toward them. Whispers rippled through the crowd of actors, producers, and socialites.

“She’s beautiful, but that dress? Not exactly billionaire-wife material.”

“Looks like she picked it off a clearance rack.”

“Can you imagine? If I were married to Adrian Blackwell, I’d be in couture every day.”

Elena heard every word but kept her chin high. Let them talk. They had no idea that her own designs — the ones people placed orders for five months in advance — were gracing fashion icons around the world tonight.

Adrian guided her through the crowd with cool efficiency, pausing to shake hands with studio executives and producers. His expression remained unreadable, though Elena didn’t miss how his gaze occasionally swept the room — sharp, assessing, protective.

Then the doors opened again, and the crowd’s murmur shifted to an awed hush.

Celeste Monroe — rising starlet, media darling, and notorious flirt — glided in wearing a breathtaking crimson gown. The fabric shimmered under the chandelier, every seam perfect, every detail whispering of craftsmanship no ordinary designer could match. Elena’s heart gave a small, private jolt. That was her work. Her design. But no one here knew.

“Oh my God, look at that dress.”

“Whoever designed it is a genius.”

“Now that’s how you arrive.”

The comparisons came fast and cruel.

“Poor Mrs. Blackwell. Standing next to that? She looks like she came dressed for brunch.”

“Doesn’t she have access to every brand in the world?”

Celeste’s gaze found Adrian instantly, and her crimson lips curved into a practiced smile. She glided toward him like a cat stalking prey.

“Mr. Blackwell,” she purred, deliberately ignoring Elena. “I didn’t think you’d grace us with your presence tonight.”

Adrian’s reply was cool and professional. “It’s my company’s event. Skipping it would be poor manners.”

Celeste’s eyes sparkled as she let her fingers trail along the stem of her wine glass. “And this must be your lovely wife.” She gave Elena a once-over, her expression sweetly poisonous. “Such a brave choice… wearing something so simple. Most women in this room are terrified to look… understated.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the surrounding onlookers.

Elena’s lips curved into a calm, unbothered smile. “Simple isn’t a flaw,” she said evenly. “But then, I wouldn’t expect someone who confuses embroidery with personality to understand that.”

The actress’s perfect smile froze for a heartbeat. Around them, someone choked on champagne, quickly stifling a laugh. Adrian’s eyes — cool, gray, unreadable — shifted to Elena. Not approving. Not angry. Just quietly observing her strength.

“Well,” Celeste said finally, her tone sugary, “some of us like to be admired.” She twirled, showing off the crimson gown. “This was custom made. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Elena let her gaze linger on the flawless stitching, on the way the gown flowed exactly as she’d intended when she sketched it months ago. “They should be talking about it,” she said smoothly. “It’s stunning. Pity about the person wearing it.”

The air crackled. Someone audibly gasped. Celeste’s smile faltered, the first real crack in her polished mask.

Before she could bite back, Adrian stepped in — voice cool as steel. “Miss Monroe, enjoy your evening. I believe the press wants a photo of you by the stage.”

Dismissed. Just like that.

Celeste flushed — anger or embarrassment, it was hard to tell — and forced a bright laugh. “Of course, Mr. Blackwell.” With one last sharp look at Elena, she turned and swept away, her crimson gown trailing like a banner.

Adrian didn’t look after her. His gaze rested on Elena instead, studying her with that same unreadable calm. “You handled that well,” he murmured.

Elena sipped her champagne without breaking eye contact. “I don’t need you to rescue me from women who mistake insults for flirting.”

Something like amusement flickered briefly in Adrian’s eyes before vanishing. “Careful,” he said quietly. “This room is full of people who think power makes them untouchable.”

“And you’re pretending you don’t notice,” Elena replied, her tone light but edged. “How’s that working out for you?”

He didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened — the smallest sign she’d hit a nerve.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of polite conversations and veiled glances. Every actress who approached Adrian smiled a little too brightly. Every whispered insult about Elena’s gown rolled off her like water on silk. She didn’t need their approval. She’d designed the very dress they were all worshiping tonight — and no one would ever know.

When the gala finally ended, the couple exited to another storm of cameras. In the limousine, Elena smoothed her gown and stared out the window at the glittering city lights.

“You didn’t say a word while they mocked me,” she said finally, her voice quiet but sharp.

Adrian set his phone aside and met her gaze evenly. “People who matter don’t waste their breath on gossip. They’ll forget by morning.”

Elena tilted her head, lips curving in a faint smile. “Interesting. For someone who doesn’t care, you looked like you were one word away from throwing Celeste out the nearest window.”

His gray eyes held hers, steady, cold — and something else. “Don’t mistake silence for indifference, Mrs. Blackwell.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the purr of the engine. Elena looked away, hiding her small, satisfied smile. Adrian Blackwell might be cold. He might be impossible to read. But indifferent? Not a chance.