Cool silk brushed against Elara's skin. She tugged at the hem of her midnight blue gown, the fabric clinging to her figure like a second skin. Her reflection stared back, a stranger with perfectly styled hair and a delicate pearl necklace. This wasn't her. Not really. Nerves fluttered in her stomach, a flock of anxious butterflies. Tonight was more than a gala. It was a performance, a high-stakes charade played out under the scrutinizing eyes of New York's elite. She remembered the files, the fragmented medical reports. *Emotional suppression disorder.* *Experimental treatment.* The words echoed, changing how she saw Rhys. His practiced charm, his effortless smiles—were they all just part of a carefully constructed facade? "Ready, Elara?" His voice, deep and resonant, cut through her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, a vision in a tailored tuxedo, his dark eyes sweeping over her. They lingered, a silent question in their depths. She swallowed, forcing a smile. "As I'll ever be." Driving through the city, the hum of the engine was the only sound. Rhys was quiet, his profile stark against the passing streetlights. Elara stole glances at him. Was he preparing his mask? His 'borrowed smile'? Suddenly, the car slowed. Outside, a flurry of activity. Valets in crisp uniforms, velvet ropes, and a blinding array of camera flashes. Her stomach clenched. Stepping onto the red carpet felt like walking into a supernova. Lights exploded, reporters shouted questions, and a wave of heat washed over her. Rhys's hand found the small of her back, a possessive, reassuring touch that sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned in, his voice a low rumble. "Smile, Elara. They're all watching." She forced her lips to curve, praying her teeth didn't chatter. Flashing her most confident, though entirely false, grin, she met the camera lenses. This was the public persona, the one Rhys had crafted for her. Gilded chandeliers dripped light onto the grand ballroom, illuminating a sea of expensive fabrics and dazzling jewels. Murmurs filled the air, a constant hum of polite conversation, laughter, and the clinking of champagne glasses. The air smelled of lilies and old money. Rhys led her through the throng, a magnet drawing all eyes. Whispers followed them, a mixture of envy and curiosity. Elara kept her gaze fixed forward, occasionally offering a small, practiced nod or a tight smile. She noticed his movements. Smooth, controlled, every gesture deliberate. He greeted powerful figures with an easy grace, his eyes sharp, assessing. The

Chapter 22: The Charity Gala