Elara stared at the box. "You want me to pretend to marry you?"
"I want a contract," Julian corrected. "One year. You play the role of the loving fiancée, and eventually the wife, of Julian Sterling. In exchange, I give you the best lawyers money can buy, a private security team, and a platform. Thorne is coming to New York next month to conduct the grand gala at the Met. If you are my wife, you will be in the front row. You will be untouchable."
"And then?"
"And then," Julian's eyes gleamed with a dark promise, "we set a trap. We make him confess. We take everything he has."
Elara looked at the ring, then at her own rough, red hands—hands that had scrubbed floors for five years. She thought of the nights she cried herself to sleep, mourning the music she had lost. She thought of Thorne's smug smile as he handed her the severance check she refused to take.
"I don't want your money," Elara said, her voice hardening.
"Then what do you want?"
Elara looked him in the eye. "I want to sing. I want to sing on a stage again, and I want him to be in the audience when I do it. I want him to know that he didn't kill my voice."
Julian smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile; it was the smile of a wolf who had found a packmate. "Deal. We'll make you a star, Mrs. Sterling, and then we'll burn his world to the ground."
The transformation of Elara Vance was brutal. The next morning, Elara was whisked away to Julian's penthouse, a sprawling glass-walled fortress overlooking Central Park. She didn't have time to process the luxury. A team of stylists, image consultants, and PR managers descended on her like locusts.
"Her hair is too dry," a stylist named Paulo complained, lifting a lock of her chestnut hair with disdain. "And these hands! We need paraffin wax twice a day."
"She needs a backstory," the PR manager, a sharp woman named Linda, said, typing furiously on her tablet. "We can't say she was a waitress. It's too Cinderella; it sounds fake. We'll say she's a private voice coach who has been living in Europe. A reclusive genius."
Elara sat in the center of the chaos, feeling like a doll being painted. Julian was rarely there; he was always on calls managing his empire or meeting with his security chief, Silas.
But the hardest part wasn't the clothes or the lies. It was the music.
Julian had a soundproof music room installed in the west wing of the penthouse. It had a Steinway grand piano and acoustics that rivaled Carnegie Hall.
"Practice," Julian had told her on the third day. "If you want to sing at the gala, you need to get your voice back in shape."
Elara stood in the middle of the beautiful room. She placed her hands on the piano. She took a breath to sing a simple scale, but nothing came out. Her throat constricted, her heart raced, and panic, hot and suffocating, washed over her. She saw Marcus Thorne's face. She felt the wooziness of the drugs he had slipped her. She heard the booing of the crowd in Vienna. She sank to the floor, gasping for air, clutching her throat.
The door opened. Julian stood there. He had come to check on her progress. He saw her curled into a ball on the expensive Persian rug, shaking.
He didn't mock her. He didn't tell her to toughen up. He walked over, took off his suit jacket, and sat down on the floor next to her.
"Breathe," he commanded softly. "In for four, hold for four, out for four."
Elara tried to follow his rhythm. It took ten minutes for her shaking to stop.
"I can't do it," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "The music... it hurts. It brings him back."
Julian hesitated, then reached out and awkwardly placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm, solid.
"He isn't here, Elara. You are safe. You are in the sky, in a fortress. Nothing gets in here unless I say so." He stood up and offered her his hand. "You don't have to sing today, or tomorrow. But don't let him win by keeping you silent. That's what he wants."
Elara looked at his hand. It was a strong hand, a builder's hand, despite the manicured nails. She took it. As he pulled her up, she stumbled slightly, falling against his chest. For a moment, neither of them moved. She could smell his cologne—sandalwood and rain. She could feel the steady beat of his heart. It was the first time in five years she had felt safe.
Julian cleared his throat and stepped back, his mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Get some rest. Tonight is the engagement party. You need to be ready."
The engagement party was a shark tank. It was held at the Sterling estate in the Hamptons. The lawn was filled with paparazzi, politicians, and socialites. Elara wore a gown of midnight-blue silk that cost more than her childhood home. The six-carat diamond weighed heavy on her finger.
She played the part. She smiled. She laughed at unfunny jokes. She clung to Julian's arm like a devoted lover.
"Look at her," she heard a woman whisper. "Came out of nowhere. Gold digger."
"I heard Julian found her in a gutter," another replied.
Suddenly, a commotion occurred near the champagne tower. Clarissa Dupont had arrived, and she was clearly intoxicated.
"Where is she?!" Clarissa shouted, pushing past a waiter. "Where is the singing maid?!"
The crowd parted. Clarissa stumbled toward Elara and Julian, her face twisted in a sneer.
"Clarissa, leave," Julian said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Why?" Clarissa laughed shrilly. "Everyone knows this is a joke, Julian! You hired her! She's a waitress! I saw her scrubbing tables last week!" Clarissa lunged forward, grabbing Elara's arm. "Admit it! You're nobody!"
Elara didn't flinch. She remembered Julian's words: You are Mrs. Sterling.
Elara gently but firmly removed Clarissa's hand from her arm. She looked down at the heiress with a mixture of pity and steel.