THIRTEEN

The world had fallen in love with an illusion.

By morning, every glossy magazine and online feature carried their faces, Hazel Castell and Dimitri Moretti, the empire couple.

Her photo from last night’ s luxury dinner event, a faint smile, eyes of cold fire, was captioned “The Heiress Who Never Falters.” He was cropped from an older interview: the charming heir who had everything, and now, apparently, everyone’s dream fiancée.

Hazel read it without emotion. Her breakfast, black coffee, and one slice of toast remained untouched on the tray beside her. She leaned against the glass wall of her suite, phone in hand, reading headline after headline.

Destiny or Strategy? Castell Engagement Sends Markets Soaring.

The Perfect Couple of Power and Poise.

Inside the Union That Will Reshape Europe’s Elite.

The world adored stories that looked like fairy tales.

Hazel knew better. Fairy tales always required someone to bleed.

“Miss Castell?” her assistant’s voice came softly through the door. “Your schedule has been adjusted. The gala this evening will begin at seven. Mr. Moretti confirmed his attendance.”

Hazel turned. “Good. Prepare my statement for the press. Nothing personal, only corporate alignment.”

“Yes, Miss Castell.”

When the door closed, Hazel stared at her reflection in the window.

The heiress in the glass was immaculate, silk robe, polished hair, flawless skin, and yet her eyes seemed almost bored.

Eight years in the Castell mansion had taught her one thing: control is not the opposite of emotion. It is emotion, perfected.

By dusk, the Castell Foundation Charity Gala was in full bloom.

Crystal chandeliers spilled light like liquid gold over marble floors. Music floated through the hall, soft and elegant. Every influential figure in Europe seemed to be there: politicians, designers, aristocrats, and investors.

And all of them turned when Hazel entered.

She wore deep silver, a gown that shimmered like smoke. The diamond earrings Dimitri had given her caught the light as she moved, slow and poised, like the final note of a violin.

Then Dimitri appeared beside her.

Tall, devastating in black. His hand found hers, fingers curling naturally around her palm. The crowd murmured, enchanted by their symmetry, beauty, and power incarnate.

“Miss Castell,” someone from the press called. “Can we get a photo of you two together?”

Hazel’s smile was perfect. “Of course.”

Dimitri leaned close as the flashes went off, his breath brushing her ear.

“You look extraordinary.”

She didn’t glance at him. “So do you.”

He chuckled lowly. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an observation.”

“Both,” she said simply, and smiled for the next photo.

For hours, they played the part.

They greeted guests, toasted donors, and danced once under the eyes of the world. Dimitri’s hand rested lightly on her back, respectful, guiding.

But beneath the performance, Hazel sensed a shift. His tone lacked its usual weaponry; his gaze held something dangerously sincere.

When he looked at her, it wasn’t calculation she saw, it was curiosity.

Later, on the balcony overlooking the glowing city, the laughter from inside faded to a distant hum.

Hazel stood by the railing, fingers tracing the chilled glass of her drink. Dimitri joined her, his jacket unbuttoned, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said.

“I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

“Keeping up the illusion.”

He smiled faintly, watching the skyline. “You really think that’s all we are? An illusion?”

She turned to him. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he set his glass down and leaned against the rail beside her. For a moment, he just watched her face, the curve of her jaw, the slight distance in her gaze, the elegance she carried like a crown and a shield.

“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.

Hazel stilled. “For what?”

“For the way I reacted. When you leaked the engagement. I thought you did it to humiliate me.”

“Did I?”

He smiled faintly. “No. You did it to protect yourself. To control the story. And to protect your father’s legacy. I should have seen that.”

Her lips parted slightly, not expecting honesty from him, not this kind.

“I misjudged you,” he continued, voice lower now. “You’re not the kind of woman who plays for attention. You play for power. And for some reason, I respect that.”

Hazel’s tone remained even. “You’re unusually self-aware tonight.”

He gave a quiet laugh. “Maybe I’m tired of playing the charming fool. The truth is, Hazel, I find you… interesting. I don’t want to fight you.”

She studied him, the sincerity in his voice, the stillness in his eyes. It didn’t sound rehearsed.

“I’m not in the habit of being trusted,” she said finally.

“Then maybe that’s what I’ll start with,” he murmured.

They stood there in silence, the city lights flickering across their faces, the distance between them tightening. When the music inside swelled again, Dimitri straightened and offered his hand.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s make them believe the illusion a little longer.”

Hazel looked at his hand for a beat too long before taking it. “Fine. But remember, illusions are only beautiful until someone blinks.”

The car ride back to the mansion was wrapped in quiet.

Rain had started to fall, soft against the tinted glass. The driver’s voice was low on the intercom, announcing ETA. Dimitri sat beside her, one hand resting on the seat between them, close but not touching.

Hazel’s head tilted against the window, eyes on the blur of city lights sliding past. For the first time in weeks, her mind wasn’t racing with strategies or suspicion.

His apology had disarmed her, not entirely, but enough to make her pause.

Maybe, she thought, this could work. Not as love. But as an alliance.

When the car turned into the Castell gates, she closed her eyes for a second. The rhythm of the rain matched the steady sound of his breathing beside her. Peace, fragile, temporary,  hovered in the space between them.

Then her phone buzzed.

A single message. No name. No text.

Just a photo.

Her gaze sharpened. Dimitri, unmistakably him, sitting in what looked like a restaurant booth, head slightly bent, laughing. A woman’s manicured hand rested on his arm, red nails tracing lazy circles on his sleeve.

The time stamp: one hour ago.

Hazel stared at it for a long moment, expression blank.

Dimitri glanced toward her, oblivious. “Something wrong?”

She slipped the phone face down onto her lap. “Nothing,” she said, voice steady.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance.

Dimitri leaned back, watching her reflection in the glass, that same composed face, beautiful and unreadable.

He smiled faintly, as if the night had gone perfectly.

And maybe, for him, it had.

But in Hazel’s silence, something cold and deliberate began to stir again.

If he thought she’d started to trust him,

He’d just made the most beautiful mistake of his life.