Chapter 5: The Gala and the Game

The car eased to a stop in front of the glittering event hall. Marble pillars shimmered beneath golden lights, and the blur of tuxedos and gowns moved like a current through the velvet ropes.

Isla’s fingers trembled in her lap.

"I can’t breathe," she whispered, smoothing the silver satin of her dress for the fifth time.

Ares didn’t glance at her. "You’ll be fine. Just don’t talk too much."

Her head snapped toward him. "Wow. So reassuring."

Finally, his gaze met hers. Cold. Controlled. "You’re not here to bond. You’re here to be seen. That’s the role. Play it."

Her stomach twisted. "Am I allowed to smile at least?"

"Only when I do."

The car door opened. A flood of camera flashes lit up the night. Ares stepped out first, composed, untouchable. Then he turned and offered his hand.

She hesitated.

Then took it.

The second her heels hit the carpet, the noise swallowed her. Flashbulbs. Voices. Questions. Stares.

"Isla Quinn?" someone shouted. "Did you meet Ares in Monaco?"

Ares didn’t flinch. "No questions."

His grip tightened as he guided her inside.

The hall glittered like something out of a dream. Chandeliers dripping with crystals, champagne bubbling over in fountains, laughter echoing off marble floors.

"Shoulders back," Ares muttered. "Chin up."

"I'm not a mannequin."

"Tonight, you are."

They moved through clusters of people, Ares introducing her with the ease of a diplomat. Isla smiled, nodded, barely spoke. It didn’t matter. No one really cared what she had to say.

"You don’t belong here, do you?" someone whispered as they reached for a flute of champagne beside her.

Isla blinked but stayed silent.

Another voice followed. "She’s the contract girl, right? Probably signed a six-month deal."

Laughter trailed behind them, sharp and smug.

She swallowed hard and drifted toward the balcony doors, air thick in her chest.

"You're doing well."

She turned. Ares stood beside her, drink in hand, gaze sweeping the room.

"Am I?"

"You didn’t trip or cry or dump wine on anyone important. That’s a win."

She crossed her arms, breath shaky. "Your world’s exhausting."

"And yet you’re still in it."

"Because I don’t have a choice."

His gaze locked with hers. "You always have a choice."

Her voice cracked. "Then why does it feel like I’m drowning?"

He didn’t speak. But his eyes—just for a breath—softened.

The music shifted.

Ares set his glass down. "We have to dance."

Panic tightened her throat. "I don’t know how."

"You’ll follow."

Before she could argue, he took her hand and led her to the center. Warmth rushed through her as he settled one hand on her waist and the other in her trembling fingers.

His voice was close. Too close. "I can hear your heartbeat."

"Then stop listening."

"It’s loud."

"Because I’m nervous."

He met her gaze. "No. Because I make you feel something."

She looked away. "You’re arrogant."

"And you’re shaking."

They moved in sync, as if they’d danced forever.

"You clean up well," he said.

She smirked faintly. "You don’t."

"No compliment?"

"I don’t compliment men who treat me like merchandise."

"Duly noted."

The moment she feared arrived.

Seraphina.

She drifted in like a storm wrapped in emerald silk, smiling with the chill of winter.

"Darling," she purred to Ares, ignoring Isla completely. "Bold move bringing her."

Isla tensed. Ares’s hand on her waist held firm.

"I take risks."

Seraphina’s gaze finally landed on Isla. "Silver. Brave choice. Easier to spot the bruises."

Isla stepped forward. Her hands shook, but her voice didn’t. "I’m not afraid of you."

Seraphina laughed, low and sharp. "I’m not the one you should be afraid of."

"Enough," Ares snapped.

Seraphina’s smile turned razor-thin. "Touchy."

And she vanished.

Isla’s chest rose and fell. Fast. Angry.

"She’s insufferable."

"She’s irrelevant."

"Then why is she still in your life?"

"Because I allow it."

"You like control that much?"

He didn’t respond. Just walked.

She followed. Even though every step felt like surrender.

The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet.

As the elevator closed behind them, Isla let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

"I hate it. That whole world. I hate every part of it."

"Then adapt."

"I don’t want to."

He turned slowly. "Then why are you still here? Wearing my ring? Living in my home?"

She snapped. "Because you bought me!"

His jaw tightened. "You could’ve walked away."

"No, I couldn’t. You threw a lifeline and made it look like mercy. But you knew. You knew I’d take it."

His eyes darkened. "You needed help."

"And you wanted control."

They stood in silence. The space between them pulsed with something unspoken.

"We leave for Paris in two days," he said finally.

Her breath caught. "What?"

"Investors. Fashion week. You’ll be with me."

"I’m not a trophy."

"You agreed."

Her voice shook. "You’re not human. You’re just a cold calculation."

A long pause.

"You make me feel like I’m about to make a mistake that hasn’t even happened yet."

Ares stepped closer, voice low. "And yet you’re still here. Still standing. Still showing up."

Isla didn’t sleep.

The room felt hollow. The lights outside too bright. Her chest too tight.

She stood by the window, wrapped in silk, watching the city hum. Somewhere in that glowing mess, the girl she used to be had vanished.

She touched her engagement ring.

No spark.

Only steel.

The morning air in the garden was sharp and cool. Isla held her tea with both hands, trying to steady the trembling.

Elara, sleek in black, approached.

"Fittings at noon. Paris isn’t kind to the unprepared."

Isla looked up. "Do you even like working for him?"

Elara’s smile was faint. "I survive working for him. There’s a difference."

"Do you ever think about leaving?"

Elara didn’t blink. "Escaping? Or mattering?"

The words hit like a crack in glass.

"Do you think I’ll matter?"

Elara looked her over. "Only if you stop being soft."

Later, Isla sat in the sitting room, flipping through a French phrasebook.

Ares walked in, jacket off, sleeves rolled.

"You’re practicing."

"Trying not to embarrass you."

He nodded once. "You’re improving."

She tilted her head. "Maybe I’m not so disposable."

He poured a drink. "We’ll see."

She hesitated. "What’s in Paris for you?"

"Power. Influence. Control."

"And for me?"

His eyes lingered.

"Visibility. Training. And if you endure it… maybe freedom."

"After the leash?"

A smile curved his lips. "If you earn it."

That night, under the pillow, she found a single note.

Pack your strength. You’ll need it.

Signed:

 A