Chapter 13: Behind the Curtain

Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Blackwell Mansion, gilding the marble floors in pale gold. The world outside was already buzzing with news, and Adrian knew it the moment his phone vibrated with one alert after another.

He scrolled through the headlines as he sat at the long dining table, black coffee untouched at his elbow.

“Mrs. Blackwell’s Fashion Misstep: Plain Jane in Champagne Silk.”

“Celeste Monroe Steals the Show in Crimson Masterpiece.”

“Who Styled the Billionaire’s Wife? Fire Them Immediately.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn’t care what society magazines thought, but the tone of mockery toward Elena grated. His wife might not be the diamond-dripping socialite they expected, but she carried herself with poise last night — something none of these gossip columnists could ever measure.

The sound of soft footsteps drew his gaze upward. Elena entered the dining room, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a pale silk robe. She looked like she hadn’t read a single headline, unbothered as she poured herself tea.

“Good morning,” she said lightly, as though the world hadn’t spent the last twelve hours shredding her reputation.

Adrian set his phone down. “You’ve seen the articles.”

“Of course.” She stirred her tea with calm precision. “They’re predictable.”

“You don’t care?”

She smiled faintly, taking a sip before answering. “Care? About strangers who mistake noise for power? No. They mocked me because I didn’t dress like I was auditioning for their approval. Let them. It changes nothing.”

Adrian studied her, gray eyes cool, but there was something else there — a flicker of respect he didn’t voice. “You’re calm for someone whose name is being dragged across every tabloid.”

“I learned a long time ago,” Elena said smoothly, “that silence is louder than outrage.”

Adrian leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on her. Most people scrambled for his approval, desperate for validation or terrified of his indifference. But Elena? She sat across from him, unruffled, sipping her tea like she ruled her own kingdom. It intrigued him — though he’d never admit it aloud.

After breakfast, Adrian left for his day of back-to-back meetings. Elena retreated to the west wing of the mansion, slipping into the private studio she’d insisted on when she moved in. To Adrian, it was just her “art room.” In reality, it was the heart of her secret life.

Bolts of fabric lined one wall, sketchbooks stacked neatly on another. A large drafting table stood by the window, sunlight spilling over half-finished designs. Elena pulled out her tablet and opened the encrypted app where her manager sent her updates.

A new message blinked at the top.

From: Lila (Brand Manager)

The crimson gown worn last night triggered an avalanche. We’ve received 3,000 pre-orders in less than twelve hours. Waitlist now extended to eight months. Press is calling it “the most exclusive dress of the year.” Do you want to release a statement through the brand?

Elena’s lips curved faintly. Her work had spoken louder than any insult hurled at her last night. The irony wasn’t lost on her — the same women mocking her gown had likely tried and failed to get on her waitlist.

She typed back quickly: No statement. Keep everything under the brand name. My identity stays hidden.

Lila replied almost instantly: Understood. But you should know — the fashion house is now being courted by Adrian Blackwell’s entertainment company for a potential sponsorship deal. They want your designs for red-carpet partnerships.

Elena froze, her tea forgotten on the edge of the desk. Of course. Adrian’s company invested heavily in films, which meant actresses, premieres, and red carpets. If his executives wanted her brand, it was only a matter of time before paths crossed too closely.

She exhaled slowly, forcing calm. Decline politely. Redirect them to a European partnership. My worlds cannot overlap.

Done, Lila confirmed. But Elena… at this pace, it’s only a matter of time before someone starts connecting dots. You’re not just growing — you’re dominating.

Elena closed her eyes briefly. She knew. And it terrified her almost as much as it thrilled her.

>>>>>>

Meanwhile, across town, Adrian sat in his glass-walled office, the city sprawling beneath him. Meetings blurred together — film budgets, marketing campaigns, international distribution deals. But it was the final meeting of the morning that tested his patience.

Celeste Monroe strolled in, all crimson lipstick and calculated confidence. She wore another designer’s dress today, but her smile was just as sharp.

“Mr. Blackwell,” she said, taking a seat across from him without being asked. “I wanted to personally thank you for hosting such a wonderful event. Everyone’s still talking about it.”

Adrian didn’t look up from his file. “It’s an annual event. My team deserves the credit.”

Celeste leaned forward, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “Everyone loved my gown last night. It’s being called iconic already. Imagine if I partnered directly with your company — I could represent the very best of fashion and film together.”

Adrian’s gaze finally lifted, cold and flat. “Miss Monroe, this is a business office. Not an audition.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m just saying, the press adores us side by side. If you ever considered—”

“I don’t,” he interrupted smoothly. “And I suggest you focus on your scripts, not your fantasies.”

Celeste’s cheeks colored, though she tried to mask it with another bright smile. “Of course, Mr. Blackwell.” She rose, voice light but brittle. “Thank you for your time.”

Adrian watched her leave, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior. The gala had revealed something he hadn’t expected — Elena’s sharp wit, her refusal to bend. Celeste, by comparison, suddenly seemed paper-thin.

That evening, Adrian returned home later than usual. The mansion was quiet, the faintest strains of piano music drifting from the west wing. Curious, he followed the sound until he reached Elena’s studio.

The door was ajar. Inside, Elena sat at her drafting table, sketching with fierce concentration. The lamplight cast her face in warm gold, her brow furrowed, her hand swift and precise. Around her were bolts of fabric, delicate swatches pinned to boards, and sketches of gowns that looked like they belonged on runways.

Adrian leaned against the doorway silently, studying her. She was so absorbed she didn’t notice him. For a man who lived in a world where secrets were currency, this moment felt… revealing. Elena Blackwell, quiet, elegant, self-contained — and yet here she was, burning with creativity, with purpose.

“Working on something?” he said at last, his voice breaking the quiet.

Elena startled, spinning around. For a split second, her composure cracked — eyes wide, hand clutching her sketchpad protectively. Then, just as quickly, she smiled, smooth and serene. “Just a hobby,” she said lightly. “Something to pass the time.”

Adrian’s gaze lingered on the sketches, the meticulous detail. It didn’t look like a hobby. But he didn’t press — not yet.

“Interesting hobby,” he said simply, his tone unreadable. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Elena to exhale slowly, heart still racing.

He hadn’t seen the truth. Not yet. But he was close. Too close.

And for the first time, Elena wondered how long she could keep her two worlds apart.