Smile for the Cameras

Dante

The morning starts with logistics, which is how I prefer my days and my people.

Lyra prefers coffee before being briefed—she makes that clear with a glare that could file a grievance.

“The glam team arrives at nine,” I tell her.

“Do they do exorcisms?” she asks, cradling her mug. “Because I might need that first.”

“They’ll handle hair, makeup, and wardrobe. They’ll also make conversation,” I warn. “Ignore half of what you hear.”

“Noted. Do they know this isn’t a wedding?” she asks.

“They do now.”

When the team shows up—three women and one man with cheekbones that could start wars—the penthouse fills with perfume and gossip.

“Mr. Marcellus never brings dates,” the blonde one whispers while curling Lyra’s hair. “Well, not to charity events. He’s… selective.”

The stylist doing her makeup murmurs, “Selective? He was practically engaged to Claudia Verin for two years.”

“Was not,” the first says. “That was PR.”

“Still counts,” the man adds. “She’s on the list tonight, by the way. Front row, wearing vengeance.”

Lyra catches my eye in the mirror, her expression unreadable but amused. “Your fan club’s thorough.”

“I don’t have a fan club,” I say.

“Sure,” she says. “You have a waiting list.”

The team laughs, and for the first time all morning, I understand the phrase outnumbered. I make a polite exit, getting myself dressed and then go back out to the living room to wait.

When they finish, the room goes quiet—like even the air forgot how to be casual. The black gown from last night clings to her with less politeness this time; the pearls gleam at her throat like they have opinions. She stands, smooths the fabric, and gives me a look that’s half dare, half well?

“You look acceptable,” I say, because complimenting her honestly feels too much like confession.

“High praise,” she says dryly. “Remind me to embroider that on a pillow.”

Rhoades clears his throat by the door. “Car’s ready.”

Lyra

If wealth had a smell, it would be the inside of this car—leather, restraint, and the faintest note of danger.

Dante sits beside me, checking his phone like a man who’s never had to scroll too long for good news. The driver turns off the main avenue, and the gala looms ahead: chandeliers visible from the street, cameras blooming like flowers.

“Remember,” Dante says, sliding his phone away. “We’re not here to convince anyone we’re happy. Just credible.”

“I’ll tattoo that on my arm,” I say. “Right next to pretend you belong here.”

He smiles faintly. “You do.”

I want to ask why that sounds like a promise but the door opens, and flashbulbs interrupt the thought.

Dante exits first, then turns back to offer his hand to me. The moment my heels hit the carpet, the air changes—brighter, louder, thinner. Reporters lean in, voices bouncing off marble.

“Mr. Marcellus! Over here!”

“Is this your fiancée?”

“When’s the engagement party?”

“Who’s she wearing?”

The last one’s directed at me. Before I can answer, Dante’s hand finds the small of my back, subtle but claiming. He lowers his head until his mouth is near my ear.

“Right hand to my chest,” he murmurs. “Left on the clutch. It reads as intimate but not proprietary.”

His breath ghosts against my skin. “You rehearsed this, didn’t you?”

“I plan,” he says.

I do as instructed, fingers grazing the expensive fabric of his suit. His heart beats steady beneath it, which only makes mine worse. We turn toward the cameras. The flash hits us both—his stillness, my nerves, the careful illusion of ease.

Someone calls his name. He laughs lightly, and the vibration moves through my palm. It feels… real, which is ridiculous.

Then I see her.

A woman in red silk stands by the champagne bar, watching us. The kind of face the world keeps a permanent record of. The kind you could build epic stories around. Claudia Verin.

She smiles, slow and amused. Her gaze slides over me, down my neckline, then up to Dante’s hand on my waist. Her expression says oh, that’s what he’s doing now.

Dante notices. I feel it before I see it—his posture tightens, his hand shifts from polite contact to a steady anchor. Fingers firm at my hip, thumb tracing a small, invisible warning.

“Smile,” he whispers. “You’re winning.”

I do, though the flash blinds and the heat of his hand makes it impossible to remember what game we’re playing.

Dante

Claudia’s gaze lingers too long, and something ugly stirs in my chest—something I thought I buried beneath years of control and quarterly earnings. Lyra senses it; I can tell by the angle of her head, by how she doesn’t step away when I don’t move my hand.

“Agitation doesn’t suit you,” she murmurs through her smile.

“I’m not agitated.”

“Mm,” she says. “You’re just holding me like I’m a stress toy, ready to squeeze and make my eyes bulge.”

I cover my chuckle with a cough before replying. “I’m holding you like I’m expected to,” I whisper. “If I were holding you like I wanted to, it wouldn’t look this good.”

Her eyes flick up to mine—cool, unflinching. “Noted.”

We make it through the photo gauntlet and into the ballroom. Light scatters from crystal, violins perform their modest servitude, and the city’s finest gather to be seen being good.

Lyra stays at my side like she was born understanding the choreography. She smiles when I need her to, laughs when I don’t deserve it, listens to the right people and ignores the rest. The pearls at her throat catch the light like punctuation.

At the far table, Elias King—hedge fund sociopath, former classmate, and walking nuisance—raises a glass toward me. When he spots Lyra, his smirk sharpens.

“Well, well,” he says when we cross paths. “Didn’t think I’d see the great Dante Marcellus domesticated. And your fiancée—she’s a surprise.”

Lyra smiles sweetly. “I specialize in surprises.”

Elias chuckles. “That dress might cause an incident. You planning to share her, Dante?”

I feel the muscle in my jaw tighten before my voice finds its footing. “You’re mistaking charity for tolerance, Elias.”

He grins wider, the way men do when they know they’ve drawn blood. “Relax. We’re all friends here.”

Lyra tilts her head, voice sugar over blade. “You must be confusing friend with leering creep who didn’t get the girl.”

The laugh she earns from nearby guests is soft but lethal. Elias excuses himself with his pride leaking out of his smile. Lyra doesn’t look at me until he’s gone.

“You’re welcome,” she says.

“For what?”

“For not stabbing him with my earring.”

I exhale something dangerously close to laughter. “Remind me not to test you.”

“Too late,” she says, and takes her glass of champagne like a weapon she knows how to use.

Across the room, Elias and his circle watch us. I can feel it—the scrutiny, the curiosity, the suspicion that this engagement isn’t just convenient. That it’s… real enough to be dangerous.

And for the first time all night, I can’t tell whether they’re wrong.

Elias lifts his glass again, eyes narrowing as he studies Lyra’s hand on my arm, the way our bodies lean—not rehearsed, not posed, but gravitating.

When he turns to whisper to the man beside him, I catch the look that passes between them.

He’s clocked it. The attachment that I’m trying to keep contained, and yet somehow it seems to be slowly creeping out.

And I don’t know if that makes me furious or relieved