"I may have served tables, Clarissa," Elara said, her voice projecting perfectly so the gathered crowd could hear every syllable. "But at least I never served my dignity on a platter for a man's attention."
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Someone chuckled.
"Get her out of here," Julian signaled to security.
As Clarissa was dragged away, screaming obscenities, Julian looked down at Elara. There was a spark in his eyes—not just amusement, but respect.
"Nicely done," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her cheek for the cameras.
"I'm learning," Elara whispered back.
But the real test was yet to come.
Two weeks later, the night of the Metropolitan Opera Gala arrived. This was the event of the season. The red carpet was rolled out onto Lincoln Center Plaza. Flashbulbs popped like lightning storms.
Elara sat in the back of the limousine, her hands trembling in her lap. Tonight, Marcus Thorne was conducting. Tonight, she had to face him.
"He doesn't know you're my wife," Julian said, adjusting his cufflinks. "He knows I'm married, but the press has kept your face relatively hidden or blurry. He hasn't seen you up close. Not yet."
"He'll know," Elara said. "He knows my eyes."
"Then stare him down," Julian said. "You have the power now."
They stepped out onto the red carpet. The roar of the crowd was deafening: "Mr. Sterling! Mrs. Sterling! Over here!"
Elara put on her mask: the cool, elegant smile of a billionaire's wife. She wore a dress of shimmering silver, reminiscent of the one she wore the last night she sang in Vienna. It was a calculated move, a psychological trigger.
They entered the grand lobby. It was packed with the elite of the music world. And there, holding court near the grand staircase, was Marcus Thorne. He was older, his hair silver now, but he still had that charismatic, predatory aura. He was laughing, holding a glass of champagne, surrounded by fawning sopranos.
Julian placed a protective hand on the small of Elara's back and guided her straight toward him.
"Maestro Thorne," Julian greeted, his voice smooth as silk.
Thorne turned. His smile was practiced, charming. "Mr. Sterling, a pleasure. I hear you've been a generous donor to the arts this season."
"I try," Julian said. "May I introduce my wife, Elara?"
Thorne turned his gaze to Elara. Time seemed to stop. Elara felt the blood drain from her face, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.
She saw the moment of recognition hit him. It wasn't immediate, but it was there: a flicker of confusion, then suspicion, then shock. Thorne's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before returning, tighter this time.
"Elara," Thorne said, testing the name. "A lovely name. Have we met before? You look strikingly familiar."
"I have one of those faces," Elara said, her voice steady, though her knees felt like water. "But I've admired your work for a long time, Maestro. Especially your time in Vienna."
Thorne's eyes narrowed. He knew. He absolutely knew. But he couldn't make a scene—not here, not in front of Julian Sterling.
"Vienna was a long time ago," Thorne said dismissively. "I prefer to look forward."
"So do I," Julian interjected. "In fact, my wife is quite the singer herself. A soprano."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? A hobbyist?"
"More than that," Julian smiled. "Actually, I was hoping to ask a favor. I heard your soloist for the Queen of the Night tonight, Ms. Ivanova, is feeling under the weather."
It was a lie, or at least a manipulation: Julian had paid Ms. Ivanova a handsome sum to have a sudden "allergic reaction" an hour ago.
Thorne stiffened. "News travels fast. Yes, she is indisposed. We are scrambling for a replacement."
"Look no further," Julian said. "Elara knows the role perfectly."
Thorne laughed, a cold, condescending sound. "Mr. Sterling, with all due respect, this is the Met. We don't just let patrons' wives sing because they enjoy karaoke. The Queen of the Night is a beast of an aria."
"I know," Elara spoke up. She took a step closer to Thorne, invading his personal space. "High F6, staccato triplets, and it requires a certain... rage. I think I have plenty of that."
Thorne stared at her. The air crackled with tension. He was cornered: if he refused, he insulted a billionaire donor; if he accepted, he risked her exposing him, or failing and embarrassing his show.
But Thorne was arrogant. He looked at Elara and saw the scared girl from five years ago. He didn't think she could do it; he thought she would choke. And if she choked on the world's biggest stage, she would be humiliated again. He would win again.
"Very well," Thorne smiled, his eyes glittering with malice. "It's highly irregular, but for a donor of Mr. Sterling's caliber, why not? Let's see if your wife has the lungs for the big leagues."
He leaned in close to Elara, whispering so only she could hear: "Don't trip this time, little bird. It's a long way down."