He removed his wife from the guest list for being ‘too simple’… He had no idea she was the secret owner of his empire.

“Not as his spouse,” Elara said softly.

A dangerous smile touched her lips.

“List me as President.”

Sebastian’s silence was immediate, reverent.

“Understood, Madam President.”

The Vanguard Gala glittered inside the grand hall like a private galaxy. White orchids rose in towering arrangements. Champagne flowed. A string orchestra played like the room was floating above ordinary life.

Outside, cameras flashed along the red carpet.

Julian arrived in a sleek black tuxedo, posture perfect, smile rehearsed. Beside him, Isabella Ricci shimmered in silver, a walking headline, soaking up attention like she’d been built for it.

Reporters called his name. A few called hers louder.

“Julian!” a journalist shouted. “Is that your wife?”

Julian didn’t flinch.

“This is Isabella,” he said smoothly. “A consultant on our brand direction.”

“And Elara?” someone yelled.

Julian’s smile tightened, just a fraction.
“Elara isn’t feeling well,” he said. “She prefers a quieter life. Tonight is… intense.”

Isabella laughed, fingers sliding along his lapel like she owned him.

“Tonight,” she whispered, “is our night.”

Inside, Julian moved through the crowd like a man walking through a room he believed he’d conquered. He shook hands. He smiled. He performed.

Then Arthur Sterling appeared—a titan with a reputation for swallowing companies whole.

“Julian,” Sterling said, voice like a drum. “Big night.”

Julian clasped his hand, forcing confidence into his grip.

“A historic night,” Julian replied.

Sterling’s gaze flicked to Isabella, then back.

“I expected to meet your wife,” Sterling said. “My wife admires her work.”

Julian laughed too quickly. “Elara? She’s… not a public person.”

Sterling’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile.

“Aurora Group sent word,” he said, lowering his voice. “They’re sending their representative tonight. A special one.”

Julian’s blood warmed with excitement. Aurora. He’d heard whispers for years. A backing force. A myth with money.

“Their representative?” Julian asked.

Sterling shrugged. “Rumor says the President may appear in person. No one sees that person.”

Julian’s ego flared.

“If I impress them,” he murmured, “this becomes permanent.”

Sterling looked at him like he was watching someone step onto thin ice.

“I’m sure you’ll try,” Sterling said dryly, and walked away.

Julian raised his champagne flute, thrill humming under his skin.

“The President,” he told Isabella. “Tonight I become untouchable.”

Isabella smiled. “You already are.”

Then the music stopped.

The hum of conversation died.