The massive doors at the top of the grand staircase—closed all night—began to open.
Security cleared the central aisle.
A hush rolled through the hall so sharp it felt physical.
Julian stepped forward immediately, pulling Isabella with him. He wanted the first handshake. The first photo. The moment frozen forever.
The doors opened wider.
A silhouette appeared.
Female.
And then she stepped into the light.
A collective gasp swept the room like oxygen being stolen.
She wore midnight-blue velvet, the kind that drank in light and returned it as power. Diamonds glimmered like scattered stars. Her hair—usually tied back in practical simplicity—fell in polished waves.
She moved like the building was hers.
Julian’s champagne glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the marble.
His brain refused to accept the shape of her face.
Elara?
No.
Impossible.
He’d erased her.
The master of ceremonies spoke, voice trembling.
“Ladies and gentlemen… please rise to welcome the founder and President of the Aurora Group—Mrs. Elara Vane-Thorn.”
Julian’s knees weakened.
Isabella’s face drained of color.
“I thought,” she whispered, staring, “you said she was a housewife.”
Elara descended the stairs with measured steps, stopping in front of Julian like a verdict.
She didn’t look at him first.
She looked past him—toward Sterling, toward the people who mattered. Sterling inclined his head in respect.
Then Elara turned her eyes to Julian.
“Hello, Julian,” she said softly, her voice carrying through the hall like a blade wrapped in silk. “I believe there was a mistake with the guest list.”
Julian swallowed, throat tight.
Elara’s mouth curved, just slightly.
“It seems I was deleted,” she continued. “So I decided not to arrive as a guest.”
A pause.
“I arrived as the reason the doors open at all.”
The cameras flashed wildly.
Julian’s mind scrambled for control.
“Elara,” he managed, voice small, “what are you doing? You’re… you’re embarrassing yourself.”
He reached instinctively for her arm.
Before he touched her, a large hand intercepted his wrist.
Sebastian stood beside her—silent, watchful, immovable.
“If I were you,” Sebastian said quietly, “I wouldn’t touch the President.”
Isabella forced a laugh, stepping forward as if she could reclaim the spotlight by sheer confidence.
“This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “Julian, tell your wife to stop this. This is a business gala, not some costume show.”
Elara finally glanced at Isabella.
Not with anger.
With calm assessment—like Isabella was a footnote.
“Elara,” Isabella said, voice rising, “who do you think you are?”
Elara’s gaze returned to Julian.
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