CHAPTER 8: THE COUTURE PERFORMANCE

ISLA'S POV

The navy silk feels like water against my skin.

I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress fits with terrifying precision—$12,400 worth of Italian craftsmanship molded to my body like it was designed for me specifically.

Maybe it was.

The diamond on my finger catches the overhead light, flashing a cold, sharp white. Two carats. Emerald cut. That stone is worth more than most people make in a decade.

On my hand, it feels like a shackle.

"Isla." Gabriel's voice comes from the doorway. Low. "It's time."

I turn.

He's wearing a black tuxedo that makes him look like he stepped out of a high-gloss magazine. Or a mafia movie. All sharp angles, starch, and controlled power.

But when he sees me, something happens.

His breath catches. Just for a second—a tiny, fractured intake of air. His jaw tightens, the muscles bunching, and his eyes darken into something unreadable.

Then the moment passes. The mask slides back into place, sealing the crack.

"You look acceptable," he says coolly.

"High praise."

"The Castellanos will be impressed. That's what matters."

He offers his arm. I take it, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath the expensive fabric.

"Remember the story," he murmurs as we walk down the corridor toward the main room. "Six months. Private relationship. Hamptons proposal. You said yes because—"

"Because you're more than the headlines," I finish, the lie tasting like a rehearsed script. "I know the script."

The sound hits us first.

Voices. A wall of noise. Forced laughter, the sharp clink of crystal. Classical music from a string quartet I didn't even know was hired drifts over the din.

Then we turn the corner, and I see them.

Fifty people. Manhattan's elite packed into the space. Designer everything. Diamonds that could finance small countries glittering under the chandeliers. Faces I recognize from magazine covers and Forbes lists blurring together.

Camera flashes explode like grenades, leaving white spots in my vision.

I freeze. My feet root to the floor.

Gabriel's hand moves to the small of my back. Warm. Steady. Grounding me against the assault.

"Breathe," he whispers, his breath stirring the hair near my ear. "And smile."

I force my lips upward into something that might pass for happiness if you don't look at the eyes.

The whispers start immediately, cutting through the music.

"Who is she?"

"I heard she's a waitress."

"Waitress? You're joking."

"Gabriel Hunt and a nobody? There must be an angle."

I feel each word like a knife sliding between my ribs.

Gabriel's hand presses more firmly against my spine. A silent message transferred through the silk: I've got you.

We move through the crowd. He introduces me to faces that blur into a sea of teeth and skin. Names I'll never remember. Handshakes that feel like damp tests of character.

Then I see them.

Antonio and Maria Castellano.

He's distinguished, silver hair catching the light, warm eyes that assess everything without seeming cold. She's elegant in emerald silk that rivals my own, genuine smile lines bracketing her mouth.

"Gabriel!" Antonio's accent is musical. Italian. "And this must be the mysterious Isla."

Gabriel's hand slides from my back to my waist. Possessive. Claiming the asset. "Isla, may I present Antonio and Maria Castellano."

Maria pulls me into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and actual warmth. "Bella! Finally, we meet the woman who captured this man's heart."

"I'm not sure anyone captures Gabriel," I say, the banter coming easier than I expected. "He's too good at escape routes."

Antonio laughs. A deep, genuine sound. Delighted. "She has wit! I like her already."

We talk. Small talk that feels like walking through a minefield. They ask about my background. I stick to the script—mostly.

Then Antonio says something that makes my economics degree kick in like a reflex.

"Gabriel, we must discuss the Milan property valuations before finalizing. My CFO raised questions about the comparable analysis in your latest report."

The $47 million error.

Gabriel's hand tightens on my waist. A warning. Don't speak.

But I hear myself speak before I can stop.

"The Milan portfolio shows higher valuations than current market comps would suggest," I say, my voice steady. "Which likely means either the properties have unique value-adds not captured in standard analysis—historical significance, development rights, location premiums—or the market shifted between initial valuation and due diligence completion."

Silence.

Antonio stares at me. Maria's eyebrows rise.

Gabriel's hand on my waist has gone rigid.

Then Antonio smiles. "You understand finance."

"I studied economics at NYU," I say. "Before I had to leave."

"Why did you leave?"

The truth sits on my tongue. Heavy. Medical bills. Debt. Survival. The crushing weight of poverty math.

"Family obligations," I say instead.

Antonio nods slowly. "Family always comes first. This is why we trust Gabriel—he understands this too, I think."

He looks at Gabriel with new respect. "A man who chooses a partner with brains and beauty—this is wisdom."

The string quartet shifts tempo, sliding into a waltz.

Gabriel's hand slides from my waist. He offers his palm. "Dance with me."

It's not a request.

I take his hand. Let him lead me to the center of the floor.

Every eye in the room is on us. The weight of their attention is physical heat.

His hand returns to my back. Warm through the thin silk. His other hand holds mine—firm, confident, like he's done this a thousand times.

He probably has.

"You just saved the Castellano conversation," he murmurs as we move, our bodies synchronizing.

"You're welcome."

"I didn't ask you to intervene."

"You didn't ask me not to."

We turn. The room blurs around us into streaks of champagne and diamonds. Flash. Spin. Flash.

"You studied economics at NYU," he says. It's not a question. It's an adjustment of his data on me.

"Two and a half years before I ran out of money."

"Why didn't you finish?"

"Because my father died drowning in debt and someone had to keep my mother alive."

His eyes search mine. We're close enough that I can see flecks of gold hidden in the dark brown irises.

Close enough to smell his cologne. Sandalwood and something else. Cedar, maybe.

Close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body, passing through the layers of our clothes.

"You could have told me," he says quietly. "About your education."

"You never asked. You just ran background checks and made assumptions."

"Fair point."

The music swells. We turn again.

His hand on my back slides slightly. Just an inch lower. The touch sends a jolt of electricity shooting up my spine.

This is acting. Performance. A show for the Castellanos and the cameras and the vultures watching our every move.

But the way he's looking at me right now doesn't feel like acting.

It feels dangerous.

Real.

I break eye contact. Look over his shoulder. Try to remember this is fake. Try to remember the contract.

That's when I hear them.

Two women standing near the bar. Loud enough to be heard over the music, their voices carrying with the sharp clarity of expensive champagne.

"She's stunning, certainly. But everyone knows Gabriel is just using her to get back at Victoria. I wonder if the poor girl knows she's just a revenge plot in a designer gown?"