Chapter 3: The Gala of Wolves

The Vanguard Gala was not an event; it was a war disguised as a charity ball. The air in the crystalline ballroom of the Metropolitan Museum was a stifling cocktail of hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume, corporate greed, and the sharp, metallic tang of judgment. A string quartet was playing something elegant from the balcony, but the music was drowned out by the roar of two thousand high-society sharks, all swimming in the same velvet-roped pool.

Avery felt like she was drowning.

Dominic had instructed her to keep a "fragile but distant" smile, which was easier than she thought. Her entire face felt fragile. The midnight-blue silk dress was a golden cage, and the sapphire at her throat was heavy, a constant reminder of the $1 million debt she was paying. But it was the diamond on her left hand that felt heaviest of all. Every time a photographer's flashbulb popped, she felt the burn of the lie on her skin.

"Look at the camera, Avery. Smile like you have a secret, not a tragedy," Dominic’s voice was a low vibration in her ear. He hadn't let go of her waist since they stepped out of the Maybach. His hand was a solid, warm weight against her exposed back, guiding her through the crowd with a possessive assurance that made her heart hammer for all the wrong reasons.

"You said I only had to act 'sensible,'" Avery whispered, leaning into him for a faux-intimate moment as a New York Post photographer aimed at them.

"A sensible woman smiles at her future husband's side, Avery. She does not look like she's about to be executed," Dominic replied, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he turned to greet a senator.

A group of women in dresses that cost more than Avery’s mother’s surgery were clustered near the champagne pyramid. They were watching her like vultures circling a fresh kill. Among them, a woman in a scandalously short silver dress detached herself and glided toward them.

Celeste Vane.

Avery recognized her. She was a fixture on the "Most Eligible" lists, an heiress to a real estate fortune, and, according to the gossip blogs, a woman who had been trying to land Dominic Thorne for years. Celeste didn't walk; she stalked, her emerald eyes fixed on Dominic with predatory intent.

"Dominic, darling," Celeste purred, her voice a polished obsidian stone. She ignored Avery entirely, her gaze locked on the 'Ice King.' "I was beginning to think you’d abandoned us for the common folk. And who is this... delightful little thing?"

Dominic didn't even blink. "Celeste. This is Avery Evans. My fiancée."

The word hung in the air, landing like a physical blow. A collective gasp seemed to ripple through the nearby crowd. Celeste’s smile faltered for a microsecond before hardening into a mask of polite disdain. She turned her green gaze to Avery, scanning her from her sophisticated waves to the very tips of her red stiletto heels.

"Fiancée? My, my. You do move quickly, Dominic. I’m surprised, that's all. Usually, you’re so meticulous about your acquisitions. This one seems... a little rushed." She looked back at Avery, her smile never reaching her eyes. "Avery, is it? It’s a pleasure. You look almost... authentic. The dress is a darling imitation of last season’s Saint Laurent."

The insult was a precise, surgical cut. Avery felt the heat rise to her cheeks. For a moment, she was back in the diner, getting mocked by a group of private school girls for a spilled milkshake. The urge to flee, to hide, was overwhelming.

Before she could speak, Dominic’s grip on her waist tightened. He pulled her flush against him, his body a solid shield between her and Celeste’s malice.

"It’s not an imitation, Celeste," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low octave. The air around him suddenly felt freezing. "And as for her authenticity, Avery is the only thing in this room that isn’t a performance. She is my wife-to-be, and you will accord her the respect that title demands. If you have difficulty with that, I’m happy to remind you of who holds the Vane real estate portfolio."

The threat was subtle, and absolutely devastating. A silence fell over the surrounding group. Everyone knew Thorne Group owned the debt on several of Celeste's father's signature buildings. With a single phone call, Dominic could ruin her.

Celeste's face went white. She sputtered, her perfect composure shattering. "I... I was only joking, Dominic. You know how I am."

"We are done here, Celeste," Dominic said, dismissing her with a cold flick of his wrist. He turned to Avery, his entire demeanor shifting. He cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the crimson line of her lower lip. His gray eyes were intense, focused only on her. "You okay?"

The tenderness in his voice was terrifying because she knew it was a lie, a masterclass in performance. Yet, her traitorous body didn't care. The electric friction of his touch sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold gala floor.

"I’m... I’m fine," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"We have to play our part, remember?" he murmured, leaning closer, his lips just an inch from hers. "We must show them how much I... value my assets."

He didn't wait for her consent. He kissed her—a deep, searing kiss that was more of a claim than an affection. It was a kiss designed for the cameras, possessive and public, a masterstroke that erased all doubt of their "relationship." For a heartbeat, Avery forgot the lie. She forgot the diner, the hospital, the contract. She only knew the sandalwood scent of his power and the terrifying warmth of the "Ice King's" kiss.

As he pulled away, the flashbulbs exploded in a blinding finale. A round of applause broke out around them. Dominic looked at the shocked, pale face of his antagonist.

"The merger is secured, Miss Evans," he whispered, his gray eyes darkening. "Smile. You just made us both another ten million."