Zara hadn't stepped foot in a ballroom since her engagement. Yet here she stood again, wrapped in an emerald silk dress that Damien's assistant had dropped off without a word. It shimmered under the lights, hugging her curves, complimenting the quiet fire in her eyes that hadn't died despite the whispers, the stares, the humiliation.
The gala was supposed to be in honor of a charity supported by Blackwood Corp, but the guests had other entertainment: Zara.
Celine was here.
And so were many others who had tried to erase Zara with nothing more than expensive smiles and sharp tongues. The ones who mocked her presence, her clothes, her background. Now, she was dressed like one of them but she would never belong.
"Ah, so the ghost bride rises," Celine murmured as she approached, her red gown clinging like a second skin.
Zara turned slowly. "Celine."
Celine's smile was sweet poison. "You do clean up well. For someone dragged out of nowhere."
Zara clenched her fingers around her champagne flute, forcing calm. "You know nothing about me."
"I know enough," Celine said, leaning in with faux intimacy. "I know Damien doesn't love you. I know you're here because of a deal. And I know the minute he finds someone else useful, you'll be forgotten."
Zara's breath hitched. Celine knew. How?
She straightened. "If he's already looking, I'm still the one wearing the ring."
Celine laughed softly. "For now."
Just then, Damien stepped in from the garden, tux crisp, eyes cold. He glanced across the room, and their eyes locked. Zara's heartbeat stumbled. He was still the same infuriatingly unreadable, beautifully broken.
She watched his gaze flick to Celine, then back to her. A twitch of something irritation? Guilt? crossed his face before it vanished.
"You've made quite the impression," he said once he reached her, voice low.
"Depends on who you ask," Zara replied, trying to smile. "Some think I'm the charity case of the year."
He didn't smile. "Don't let them get to you."
"I don't." She paused. "But sometimes, I wonder why I'm still here."
He said nothing, just reached for her hand and led her toward the dance floor.
She didn't protest.
The music was soft, classical. As he placed a hand on her waist and took hers in his, Zara searched his face. Up close, he looked tired. Haunted. The usual steel in his expression seemed... cracked.
"You don't have to do this," she whispered.
"I know." His hand tightened slightly. "But I wanted to."
They moved in sync, too aware of the people watching, of the pressure simmering beneath every step. This wasn't just a dance it was a statement.
"I saw you with Celine," Zara murmured.
He didn't look at her. "Nothing happened."
"Yet."
He met her gaze now. "I wouldn't do that to you."
Zara's throat tightened. "This whole marriage is a 'that to me,' Damien."
Silence.
When the music ended, applause broke out politely, and they stepped away. But before they could leave the floor, Damien's grandmother, Eleanor, approached.
"You both looked... convincing," she said.
Zara raised a brow. "That's the goal, isn't it?"
Eleanor studied her, then nodded at Damien. "A word."
Damien hesitated, then followed her toward the balcony, leaving Zara alone again. She didn't notice Celine watching her from across the room. Or the paparazzi discreetly ushered in through the side. But she noticed the whisper that rippled when someone projected an old image of Zara from her past ragged, exhausted, before Damien.
The crowd laughed.
Her cheeks flushed. It was subtle, but still made her put her guard up knowing this was the work of someone and it was just the beginning.