“Julian! Over here!”
“Mr. Thorn! Smile!”
“Is that Isabella Ricci with you?”
Julian slid an arm around Isabella’s waist like she was a trophy and he was the hunter.
Isabella looked stunning—silver dress, perfect hair, the kind of beauty that made people forget their own names.
Julian loved the way cameras loved her.
Loved the way the flashbulbs made him feel chosen.
A reporter shouted, “Where’s your wife tonight?”
Julian didn’t miss a beat. He’d practiced it in the car.
“Elara isn’t feeling well,” he said with a sympathetic look that would photograph beautifully. “She prefers a quieter life. This world isn’t really her scene.”
Isabella laughed softly and leaned into him, as if she belonged there more than any wife ever could.
They climbed the steps under applause and camera bursts.
Inside, the gala was a masterpiece of controlled extravagance—white orchids, crystal fountains of champagne, a jazz ensemble that sounded expensive even when it whispered.
Julian moved through the room shaking hands like a man collecting confirmations of his own greatness.
And then he heard the voice he needed most.
“Julian!”
Arthur Sterling—broad-shouldered, sixty, the kind of man who could buy and bury companies with equal ease.
Julian’s smile sharpened. “Arthur. You look great.”
Sterling’s eyes flicked to Isabella. Then back to Julian, unimpressed.
“I expected to meet Elara,” Sterling said. “My wife’s a fan of her charity work.”
Julian’s chest tightened—annoyed, but he kept smiling.
“She’s home,” Julian said smoothly. “Migraine.”
Sterling’s expression barely changed.
Then he leaned in slightly.
“A representative from Aurora is arriving tonight,” he said. “Word is the president may show in person.”
Julian’s heart jumped.
“Aurora? The president?” Julian said, trying to sound casual and failing.
Sterling nodded. “Nobody’s ever seen them. Rumor is they own half the city.”
Julian felt electricity in his veins.
If he impressed Aurora’s president—if he got the photo, the handshake, the whispered approval—he wouldn’t just be rich.
He’d be untouchable.
He turned to Isabella, excitement blazing.
“Did you hear that?” Julian murmured. “Tonight changes everything.”
Isabella smiled like she could taste the future. “You’re already a king.”
Then the music stopped.
The room quieted.
A hush moved across the crowd like someone had sucked the oxygen out.
At the top of the grand staircase, the massive oak doors began to open.
The emcee stepped forward, nervous, microphone shaking slightly.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “please clear the central aisle. We have a priority arrival.”
Julian stepped forward immediately, dragging Isabella with him.
He positioned himself at the foot of the stairs—perfect angle for cameras.
He was going to be the first face Aurora’s president saw.
The doors opened fully.
A silhouette appeared.
Feminine.
Tall.
Unhurried.
The figure stepped into the light.
And the room—full of people who rarely reacted to anything—made a sound like a collective inhale.
Because the woman descending the staircase wasn’t an old Swiss banker.
She was wearing midnight-blue velvet studded with crushed diamonds that caught the chandelier light like a galaxy.
