The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and a tension I could practically taste. I looked past the imposing figure of the man who had just spoken—Lovis. He had come to me, and I had asked him the dangerous question.
"So you're after his Achilles heel..." Lovis had said, his face a mask of practiced indifference.
"Yes, he does have one," he confirmed.
I replayed those words in my mind, letting each syllable echo like a drumbeat in my chest. "…WHO LOVIS WAS REFERRING TO… WHEN HE ANSWERED MY QUESTION ABOUT EISER'S ACHILLES HEEL." The thought was intoxicating, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once. I had spent months trying to crack him, to find that tiny fissure in the armor of the man who never faltered. And now, a piece of the puzzle had been handed to me, wrapped in secrecy and danger.
I could feel my pulse racing. Every instinct screamed that this knowledge was a weapon—if wielded correctly, it could unbalance him, make him vulnerable, and tilt the scales in a game I had been forced to play silently for far too long.
And then, she appeared.
The opulent door swung open with a quiet authority that made the chatter in the room fade into near silence. The crowd—a blur of silks, diamonds, and whispered admiration—parted for her, as if the world itself acknowledged her arrival.
She was stunning. Too perfect, too poised. Every step was deliberate, every glance measured, as if the air itself bent to accommodate her presence. Pale blonde hair cascaded in perfect waves down her back, catching the light of the chandeliers. Her lips curved into a smile that seemed to promise danger and delight in equal measure, and the necklace around her neck shimmered like a net of starlight, delicate yet unyielding.
My gaze locked on her, and my chest constricted. The text beneath her figure confirmed what my racing heart already feared:
"DIAH DE LAURENT AGE 29. ONLY DAUGHTER OF DE LAURENT FAMILY AND DIRECTOR OF DE LAURENT GALLERY."
She didn't glance at the crowd. She didn't need to. Her eyes—sharp, calculating, and undeniably magnetic—were fixed on one person. My husband. Eiser.
"IT'S BEEN A WHILE," she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs like silk over steel, smooth and rich and dangerous. Then, with a possessiveness that made my blood run cold, she leaned slightly toward him and added, "HELLO, DARLING."
The effect was instantaneous. Eiser, usually the unshakable fortress of composure, faltered. His immaculate posture wavered, and for the briefest, most terrifying moment, I glimpsed something foreign in his eyes—a vulnerability I had never seen, an echo of desire, of devotion, of history I hadn't shared.
My mind raced, unable to ignore the truth that was screaming at me from every detail: "GIVEN HOW SHE GREETED HIM… THEY MUST HAVE BEEN LOVERS, RIGHT?"
Pieces clicked together in my mind like jagged shards of glass finally forming a terrifying mosaic. The late nights, the unexplained absences, the cold detachment that had always masked something deeper. So… he had a lover. Hidden, secret, undetected, while bound to me in a marriage that had been nothing but a contract, a transaction, a cage.
I noticed the small, triumphant curve of her lips—a smile that was both gentle and merciless, a silent acknowledgment of her own power. "AT THAT MOMENT, I INSTINCTIVELY KNEW…"
I remembered vividly the first night I had truly seen Eiser fall apart. Not in anger, not in calculated cruelty, but in drunken fragility. His mask had slipped, and beneath it, the man—the man he never allowed anyone to see—had emerged.
"…ON THE DAY I SAW EISER DRUNK AND DISHEVELED FOR THE FIRST TIME…"
A single syllable had tumbled from his lips that night, raw, unguarded, unthinking:
"DA…"
And now, facing Diah, the clarity was blinding. My chest tightened, my stomach churned, and my mind felt like it was being seared by truth.
"…AND THAT SHE WAS…"
I didn't need confirmation anymore. The puzzle was complete, the lock undone.
"THE NAME HE'D CALLED OUT… WAS HERS."
Diah. Diah De Laurent. Eiser's Achilles' heel. The one person capable of stirring his heart, unraveling his mind, and piercing the unyielding armor he wore around me.
I felt a shiver run down my spine, a blend of dread and anticipation. For the first time, I held the key. And if used correctly… it could change everything.
---
My heart was beating a panicked rhythm against my ribs—BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP—even as I tried to rationalize the discovery. "WELL, HE IS 27 YEARS OLD. IT'D BE UNUSUAL NOT TO HAVE DATED AT ALL BY THAT AGE," I muttered to myself, a feeble attempt at reason in a storm of emotions. But the room's atmosphere was anything but normal—every chandelier glint, every flicker of candlelight, seemed charged with unspoken danger.
I stayed frozen near the edge of the lavishly decorated ballroom, the sheer curtains offering me a pitiful shield. From my hiding spot, I could see them—Eiser and Diah—locked in a silent standoff. The air between them was taut, electric, like a wire stretched to its breaking point. "…SEEING AS HOW THEY'VE BEEN STARING AT EACH OTHER FOR A FEW MINUTES NOW, NEITHER SAYING A WORD."
The silence was almost unbearable. It pressed against my chest, constricted my lungs, and made the hairs on my arms stand on end. This was my room, my gathering—my domain. And yet, somehow, I had been reduced to a spectator, powerless, insignificant. A small, indignant voice clawed at my mind: "THIS IS MY ROOM THOUGH! SO WHY DO I HAVE TO BE THE ONE HIDING FROM THEM? WHAT ARE THEY DOING?!"
I realized with a sinking dread that there was no easy escape. The layout of the room left me exposed if I tried to leave, and announcing myself now would create a spectacle I wasn't prepared to handle. I was trapped. And worse, I was witnessing something that no one should ever have to see unprepared—the raw history, the unresolved tension, the secret lives of people I thought I knew.
One thing was clear: "BESIDES, IT'S QUITE CLEAR… THAT THEIR RELATIONSHIP DID NOT END UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES…" Every glance, every movement, was loaded with unspoken words and buried resentment.
Diah, of course, was the first to break the silence. Her voice floated over the room like silk wrapped around a knife—dangerous, sweet, and perfectly controlled.
"It's not like I expected you to be happy about seeing me again… BUT THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS ACCEPT MY GREETING."
Eiser's face, which had been a perfect mask of unreadability, darkened in an instant. His composure snapped like glass.
"THAT'S ENOUGH. HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE HERE?" His words were low, controlled, and terrifyingly cold, each syllable dripping venom.
But Diah didn't flinch. She only let out a dry, understated laugh, one that seemed to echo through the tension-filled air.
"I GUESS YOU DIDN'T BOTHER READING MY LAST LETTER EITHER. I WROTE THAT I'D BECOME THE NEW DIRECTOR AND WOULD COME TO SEE YOU SOON."
Eiser's response was a storm contained within a single frame of blue ice. Every word was sharp, precise, yet laced with a vulnerability he rarely let anyone glimpse.
"I WOULD, HAD IT NOT MADE ME SICK TO MY STOMACH TO HEAR IT."
A "GULP" caught in my throat. It was perfectly rational, yet my own emotions rebelled. I couldn't help the prickling discomfort, the uncanny feeling of witnessing something sacred and forbidden collide with the public sphere. Their dialogue wasn't just about old flames; it was a wound reopening, a scar demanding attention.
Diah, unshaken by his blatant fury, leaned closer to the edge of a nearby table, her gloved fingers tightening until her knuckles were white. And yet, in her eyes and the curve of her lips, there was no fear—only confidence, calculation, and triumph.
"Well, I MEANT IT. I MISSED YOU, LEINZ."
Leinz. That single nickname, intimate and casual in her mouth, twisted a knot in my stomach that I couldn't undo. It wasn't a plea. It wasn't a request. It was a declaration—a fact he recognized, feared, and perhaps even longed for. The realization hit like ice: this was not just a former lover. This was his undoing, the one woman whose power over him I could not begin to comprehend.
And I, hidden and trembling, watched it all.
---
---
🔥
Diah's words—"I missed you, Leinz"—hung in the air like a blade, deliberate and calculated. I could feel Eiser's fury radiating outward, even from where I hid. His hand, partially visible beneath the fine fabric of his tuxedo, formed a furious CLENCH, muscles rigid and coiled with barely restrained force. Every line of his body screamed restraint barely maintained.
"I was aware you'd gotten married," Diah continued, her tone dangerously casual, like tossing pebbles into a storm. "But it still feels rather strange to see you under such circumstances." The sting in her words wasn't directed at me—but I felt it all the same. She was dismissing my very existence with effortless elegance. "Well, I won't bother taking it too seriously… SINCE I KNOW YOUR MARRIAGE…" The implication was sharp, unmistakable: their past had been real, tangible, and mine was nothing but a contract, a shadow.
Then, with a smooth pivot, she referenced her return, brushing against the letter Eiser claimed he hadn't read. "I GUESS YOU DIDN'T BOTHER READING MY LAST LETTER EITHER. I WROTE THAT I'D BECOME THE NEW DIRECTOR AND WOULD COME TO SEE YOU SOON."
Her confidence was radiant, almost oppressive. "PERHAPS IT'S BECAUSE HE'S NEARING THE END OF HIS LIFE, BUT MY FATHER FORGAVE ME FOR EVERYTHING. HE EVEN GAVE ME THE DIRECTOR TITLE, ALTHOUGH HE USED TO SAY HE'D NEVER HAND IT OVER TO THE GIRL WHO BETRAYED HER FAMILY…" She let the words linger like an accusation wrapped in charm. I understood immediately—this was her story of exile, her self-imposed punishment "under the guise of studying abroad," now ended, her return sanctioned by family, by power, by status.
Then, the pivot that made Eiser flinch in ways I had never before witnessed. "I'M SURE THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU'VE MISUNDERSTOOD ABOUT WHAT I DID. I'D LIKE TO OFFER YOU AN EXPLANATION."
His head snapped up, eyes blazing with volcanic fury barely masked beneath his stoic exterior. "MISUNDERSTOOD?" His eye twitched, a tiny, involuntary betrayal of the storm beneath the calm surface. He turned slightly, sharp profile illuminated by the chandelier light. "UNLESS YOU'VE GOT ONE HELL OF AN EXCUSE TO OFFER ME, YOU'D BE BETTER OFF KEEPING YOUR MOUTH SHUT."
His words were a warning, a tether stretched tight—but Diah didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned into the tension like a predator circling its prey.
Eiser tried again, an attempt to reassert control, to eject her from the scene before emotions spiraled. "YOU WEREN'T ON THE GUEST LIST, SO I HAVE NO IDEA HOW YOU MANAGED TO SNEAK IN HERE… BUT UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE FORCIBLY REMOVED, LEAVE THIS PLACE IMMEDIATELY."
Diah's smile widened, feline, fearless, unapologetic. "I'D PREFER YOU NOT TREAT ME LIKE AN INTRUDER. AS I'M HERE AT MS. SERENITY'S INVITATION."
My stomach dropped. My invitation? I hadn't sent one. I had personally curated every name, meticulously erased any possibility of trouble. And Eiser—he recognized the discrepancy immediately, even from a distance.
"THIS YEAR, SERENA WAS IN CHARGE OF CREATING THE GUEST LIST AND SENDING OUT THE INVITATIONS. I ALSO DID A FINAL REVIEW OF THE LIST, BUT I DON'T RECALL SEEING DIAH'S NAME ON IT." His gaze, sharp as a scalpel, seemed to pierce through the shadows where I crouched.
Then, the most gut-wrenching moment arrived. Diah poised herself, prepared to speak her explanation, but in that instant, Eiser's mind flashed back to the past. Crimson memories stained the air between them, violent and unrelenting.
"HOW COULD I HAVE POSSIBLY MISUNDERSTOOD… WHAT I WITNESSED WITH MY OWN TWO EYES?"
I felt it too—the shock, the horror, the slow, sinking realization. What he had seen was a kiss, illicit, consuming, and the subsequent image—a woman, Diah, heavily pregnant.
Everything clicked into place with horrifying finality. Her exile, the betrayal of family, the heartbreak, the drunken misery he had endured—the pieces of his life I had only glimpsed in fragments—fell into a horrifying mosaic. Diah hadn't merely left him; she had destroyed him. She had shattered him, and now she was here, poised to explain it all.
And I, hidden in the shadows, felt the weight of every unspoken secret, every scar etched into his heart, every word that could undo the man who had been untouchable—except for her.
---
---
Diah had thrown down the gauntlet, claiming she was here by my invitation. My pulse raced, a wild drumbeat in my chest, as Eiser's voice cut through the gilded air like steel. "THIS YEAR, SERENA WAS IN CHARGE OF CREATING THE GUEST LIST AND SENDING OUT THE INVITATIONS. I ALSO DID A FINAL REVIEW OF THE LIST, BUT I DON'T RECALL SEEING DIAH'S NAME ON IT."
The silence that followed her claim was heavy, suffocating, and I felt the weight of every eye in the room, even if most were unaware of the true drama unfolding in this corner. She had bypassed the official process—classic Diah. Elegant, fearless, untouchable. My mind raced: how had she done it? Through charm, cunning, influence… or all three?
Her gaze met his then, eyes flashing with a mixture of challenge, defiance, and a faint hint of regret. "I was aware you'd gotten married, but it still feels rather strange to see you under such circumstances." The words themselves were smooth, polite—but the venom beneath was unmistakable.
And then came the coup de grâce, delivered with the chilling nonchalance of someone who believed they had won before the fight even began: "Well, I won't bother taking it too seriously… SINCE I KNOW YOUR MARRIAGE IS A SHAM."
It landed like ice in my chest. Cold, precise, cruel. Her implication was undeniable: in Diah's mind, her claim over Eiser eclipsed my legal, my formal, my present. My heart thumped harder, caught in the suffocating realization that she had already planted the seeds of dominance over him—and over me.
Then, in an unexpected twist, she brought my name into the fray. "SERENA SERENITY… SHE'S BEAUTIFUL." I froze, each word slicing through me. She paused, profile framed by flickering candlelight, the epitome of composure. "SHE'S SO CHARMING AND ATTRACTIVE, ANY MAN WOULD FALL IN LOVE WITH HER. I WAS IMPRESSED BY THE INNATE CHARISMA AND ELOQUENCE SHE EXUDED, EVEN AT SUCH A YOUNG AGE."
I almost choked. Flattery? A recognition? Or the cruelest subtle undermining I had ever endured? She was praising me while simultaneously implying that my marriage to Eiser was nothing but a convenience, a superficial selection, an arrangement devoid of true claim.
The sharp edge in her voice returned, smooth and deliberate: "PERHAPS THAT'S WHY… EVEN THOUGH I KNEW YOUR MARRIAGE WAS JUST FOR SHOW, DARLING, I FOUND MYSELF ALMOST FEELING A LITTLE JEALOUS."
That single word, "Darling," cut through the tension like a serrated knife. Eiser, who had maintained control through sheer force of will, faltered. The mock intimacy, the claimed jealousy, shattered the delicate veneer of his composure.
"STOP REFERRING TO ME BY THAT VILE ENDearMENT!" His roar echoed through the cavernous ballroom. The resounding SLAM of his hand against the marble table reverberated like thunder, rattling flowers and gilded trinkets.
Diah flinched, stepping back just enough to let the icy intensity of his proximity wash over her. I could almost feel the waves of controlled fury emanating from him—the heat, the danger, the absolute force of his wrath.
His voice dropped to a terrifying whisper, thick with hatred that was both ancient and immediate. "I DON'T CARE WHETHER YOU'VE BECOME THE NEW GALLERY DIRECTOR OR WHATEVER EXCUSES YOU'VE PREPARED. NONE OF IT IS MY BUSINESS ANYMORE."
He leaned forward, scarlet flush creeping over his sharp features under the dramatic lighting, eyes blazing as if the fire within could incinerate the room. His next words didn't merely dismiss; they severed. "ALL YOU ARE NOW IS THE LIVING REMINDER OF MY LOATHSOME PAST."
Then, with the precision of someone reclaiming control, he pulled back, adjusting his cuff, restoring the frigid calm he was known for. "I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO SAY TO YOU."
The confrontation was over. The thread that had bound them, that tethered her to his past, had been cut—coldly, publicly, and completely. Diah's confidence wavered, her earlier dominance shaken by the full force of his fury.
And I—hidden, trembling, my chest tight with revelation—understood, with chilling clarity, the truth of his Achilles' heel. It wasn't affection, it wasn't lingering love, but a deep, decades-old wound, raw and unhealed. A wound that only Diah could reach, and now had.
---
The finality of Eiser's words—"ALL YOU ARE NOW IS THE LIVING REMINDER OF MY LOATHSOME PAST. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO SAY TO YOU."—sent a cold shiver crawling down my spine. The room still trembled with the residue of his barely contained fury, as if his anger had seeped into the chandeliers, the polished marble, and even the air itself.
I kept my eyes trained on Diah De Laurent, the beautiful, audacious director of the De Laurent Gallery. She stood there, chest rising and falling with a quiet, wounded breath, her poise barely faltering under the force of his dismissal. At 29, she carried every polished facet of her appearance—from her long, pale blonde hair to the glinting elegance of her dress—but beneath that flawless surface lay a history capable of shattering even a man like Eiser.
"COME TO THINK OF IT… HAVE I EVER SEEN EISER WITH SUCH ANGER IN HIS EYES?"
No. Never. Not in the boardroom, not in the calculated coldness of his every social encounter, not even in our hollow, transactional marriage. "I'VE NEVER SEEN HIM WITH SUCH NAKED EMOTION ON HIS FACE." That rage had been a tangible force, a sharp, piercing energy that made the air itself seem to vibrate. It was unfathomably more dangerous than the cold looks he regularly flung in my direction, a reminder that beneath the composure I was used to, there existed a volcano of fury few had ever glimpsed.
My thoughts returned to the spark that had ignited this obsessive quest: Lovis, confirming my desperate inquiry with those carefully measured words. "SO YOU'RE AFTER HIS ACHILLES HEEL… YES, HE DOES HAVE ONE."
I had searched endlessly for a weakness, a thread I could pull to finally loosen the chains of this marriage. And now, I had found it—not a secret lover cherished in whispers, but a ghost he could not forgive, a wound poisoned with betrayal that festered decades deep.
Images cascaded through my mind in brutal clarity: Diah's triumphant, self-satisfied smile; the intimate, deliberate "HELLO, DARLING." My chest tightened as the horrifying pieces slotted into place: "GIVEN HOW SHE GREETED HIM… THEY MUST HAVE BEEN LOVERS, RIGHT? SO… HE HAD A LOVER."
The memory of that night—the drunken dishevelment, the whispered syllable "DA…"—and the final, crushing certainty: "THE NAME HE'D CALLED OUT… WAS HERS."
Diah was no longer merely an obstacle. She was a weapon, a lever, a key to Eiser's deepest vulnerability. Every ounce of his fury, every trace of the loathsome past he thought buried, was now exposed before me, raw and unguarded.
Eiser exhaled, a controlled breath that reseated his composure. The intensity in his eyes dimmed to the usual glacial blue, and his posture straightened, calculated and pristine. With a final, dismissive glance at Diah, lips pressed into a thin, uncompromising line, he began to TURN away.
My heart raced, but my mind was crystal clear. Every calculation, every possibility, clicked into alignment. Eiser had declared Diah irrelevant. He had severed her from his present, stating "I DON'T CARE WHETHER YOU'VE BECOME THE NEW GALLERY DIRECTOR OR WHATEVER EXCUSES YOU'VE PREPARED. NONE OF IT IS MY BUSINESS ANYMORE."
But what if I made it his business again?
My goal had never changed: dissolve this contracted marriage. And Eiser's greatest vulnerability—Diah, even as the woman who had wounded him most—was the key. If I could manipulate her presence, force him to confront unresolved feelings, or demonstrate that I was the more controlled, less disruptive partner, I could turn this revelation to my advantage.
The opportunity had revealed itself, glinting like a blade in the dim light of the ballroom. It was time to act. To step from the shadows.
Eiser was turning away from Diah, believing the encounter finished. But I wasn't finished.
L
---
Eiser had just delivered his ruthless dismissal, back to Diah, ready to bury his "loathsome past" once more. His polished shoes STRIDED across the marble floor, every measured step a statement of control regained. Diah stood frozen, stunned into silence, her composure momentarily fractured.
This was my moment.
I stepped out from behind the heavy velvet curtain, emerging into the golden glow of the chandeliers. My cream-colored dress, cinched at the waist with a modest bow, contrasted sharply with the darkness of their confrontation. I held a delicate pink-tinted cocktail glass, the movement of my hand measured, calm, as if I had simply paused to admire the ornate tiered dessert cart nearby. The soft musical notes of the string quartet, previously lost beneath the tension, now floated lightly around me, creating a delicate, almost ethereal counterpoint to the drama at hand.
I held my head high. "I CAN AFFORD TO RELAX A BIT FOR THE EVENING PARTY," I reminded myself, the quiet assurance forming an invisible shield. "SINCE I'VE GONE THROUGH ALL THE IMPORTANT ORDERS OF BUSINESS, LIKE THE BRIEFING ON THE HOTEL'S ACHIEVEMENTS, AT THE OPENING HALL RECEPTION…" The carefully orchestrated guests were immersed in light CHITTER CHITTER, oblivious to the storm unfolding at the edge of the ballroom.
My sudden emergence drew their attention immediately. Eiser paused mid-stride, turning his head, blue eyes narrowing with alert suspicion. Diah finally shifted, her blank, poised gaze fixing on me.
I moved forward with deliberate, controlled grace, first meeting Diah's eyes. Beautiful, yes—but now there was a fracture in her composure, a flicker of desperation under the polished blonde silk.
"Madam De Laurent," I said, voice sweet and steady, laced with the authority of the legitimate hostess. "I apologize for the oversight. It appears our staff must have made a mistake with the seating chart."
Diah's eyes narrowed, calculating a response. "Ms. Serenity, it's charming of you to finally join us. I was just discussing old times with Leinz—Eiser."
I offered a small, knowing smile, subtle but unmistakable—an ocean of information hidden behind a single curve of lips. "Oh, I heard. And I understand your confusion. It is quite a shock to see how much Eiser has… changed in the time since you last saw him."
I raised the cocktail slowly to my lips, giving Eiser the time to process my presence fully. His blue eyes, usually so unreadable, flickered with intense, guarded confusion as he assessed me.
"However," I continued, shifting my attention directly to him while keeping Diah firmly in my peripheral vision, "as you pointed out, Diah mentioned she was here by my invitation." I paused deliberately, letting the subtle lie—the one Eiser had already denied—hover between us.
"Though I don't recall sending one, I would hate to see one of our distinguished guests forcibly removed from our event, especially the new director of a gallery so influential to the city's culture." I met his gaze, holding steady, my tone polite yet commanding.
Then, with perfect precision, I mirrored Diah's intimate term, twisting it to my own purpose. "Eiser, darling," I said, the words laced with playful, icy irony. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to be perceived as rude on our hotel's most important night, would you?"
I hadn't merely stepped out of the shadows—I had seized the very Achilles' heel I had uncovered, leveraging the drama of their fractured past as a foundation for my own power. I was the wife, the hostess, the embodiment of present reality. I had issued an unspoken ultimatum: maintain composure, control your fury, or allow your history to disrupt your public image.
The move was calculated, dangerous even—but it restored me to the center of the narrative, forcing Eiser to acknowledge my authority and stake over the unfolding evening. In one smooth, composed gesture, I had neutralized the immediate threat of conflict and claimed my position as the architect of both perception and power.
I had succeeded.
---
The silence that followed my seemingly innocent question—"Eiser, darling, I'm sure you wouldn't want to be perceived as rude on our hotel's most important night, would you?"—was heavier than any rage I had witnessed from him before. I stood perfectly still, cocktail in hand, letting the implications of my casual intervention settle like a shroud over the room.
Eiser's gaze, once blazing with fury, was now ice-cold, but not from anger. It was the frost of profound displeasure, the rigid awareness of having been maneuvered. His jaw was taut, the tension in his broad shoulders undeniable. I had succeeded in cornering him. He could not risk a public scandal, not with the most influential guests in the city watching, and certainly not with Diah De Laurent—the formidable, cunning new gallery director—looming as a potential victim of his unchecked wrath.
"HE DIDN'T EXPECT ME TO MAKE A SUDDEN ENTRANCE LIKE THIS."
I caught the silent acknowledgment in his gaze, a promise of reckoning buried beneath restraint. "THE EYES HE TURNED TOWARDS ME WERE BRIMMING WITH FURY."
Diah, ever perceptive, did not waste a moment. The instant Eiser hesitated, her confidence returned, replacing the fracture in her composure with a triumphant smirk. She understood immediately: in this social arena, I—the current wife—held the real authority.
She softened her tone, feigning grace, yet each word dripped with subtle condescension. "SERENA IS RIGHT. I'M SORRY. I WASN'T THINKING." She spun her apology into a strategic move, casting my intervention as a necessary correction to Eiser's rudeness. "YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN SO HOT-TEMPERED WHEN I'M AROUND. I SHOULD'VE CONSIDERED YOUR WIFE'S REPUTATION AND REMAINED SILENT."
Clever. She was trying to claim moral high ground while simultaneously undermining me, framing herself as the graceful victim of my husband's volatility. But I had anticipated this kind of maneuver.
Eiser said nothing immediately. He inhaled, a deep, barely perceptible tremor in his chest, before conceding. His concession was reluctant, bitter even. "MY WIFE IS RIGHT."
The words were laborious, tasting like ash on his tongue. He wasn't yielding because he agreed with me; he yielded because stability—public perception—was far more important than the indulgence of private fury.
He stepped back, posture regaining the rigid control that defined him. "I APOLOGIZE. IT WAS RUDE OF ME." The apology was not to Diah; it was a public acknowledgment to the hotel, the guests, and, crucially, to the social contract binding him to me.
Diah's eyes widened in surprise, a tiny crack appearing in her previously unflappable facade. She had not expected him to yield so easily, or to use my presence as the reason for compliance.
Eiser then turned fully to me, expression unreadable, and took the empty cocktail glass from my hand. The gesture was deliberate—a cold, public display of a husband taking control of both the scene and the wife. He was removing me from the immediate battlefield, retracting the inconvenient complication I had just become.
"SERENA, YOU'VE BEEN WORKING TOO HARD," he said quietly, tone low but edged with authority.
"I'm fine, darling," I murmured, allowing him to lead me away. My nod to Diah was simple, cold, professional—a subtle, unmistakable declaration: the first round had been mine.
Yet the proximity was a cage. I could feel the residual energy radiating from him, coiled, lethal, frustrated—not at Diah, primarily, but now at me.
"Did you invite her?" he growled once we were out of earshot.
"Of course not," I replied smoothly. "I carefully reviewed the list. As you know, I went through all the important orders of business before the evening party, including the guest list."
His eyes locked on mine, suspicion warring with disbelief. "THEN HOW DID SHE GET IN?"
I allowed a light shrug, maintaining the calm facade. "Perhaps Madam De Laurent, being the new Director of an influential gallery, is more resourceful than we gave her credit for. Or maybe she found a friend."
I knew the next phase of my strategy hinged on this moment. Eiser was no longer dismissive; he was watching me, evaluating my power, my methods, my intentions. I was no longer furniture in his world—I was a variable, a factor proven dangerously effective. The game had changed.
,
I took a slow sip of the chilled, rose-hued cocktail, the glass's soft "CLINK" punctuating the hum of conversation around me. The Serenity Hotel's parties were renowned, and I could finally understand why. The atmosphere was intoxicating: warm golden light filtering through the suspended yellow flowers, the soft hum of a string quartet, and the elegant murmur of impeccably dressed guests.
"I'm truly ecstatic to have been invited to such a beautiful party," I murmured under my breath, though the words were more an observation than conversation. The young woman beside me, her diamond-encrusted collar glittering in the warm light, beamed in agreement.
"I'm positively enraptured by how marvelous and elegant this party is," she gushed. "It's a late summer evening, so the weather is perfectly cool, and the sky's hue is breathtaking. The food is exquisite, the desserts are as much a feast for the eyes as the palate, and the music… well, everything is simply perfect."
It was hard to argue with her. Indeed, every element—the soft golden glow, the careful arrangement of flowers, the gentle curve of the terrace overlooking the city—was perfection itself. But my attention soon drifted.
Across the terrace, a striking figure caught my eye. Diah De Laurent.
The realization was immediate. So she's part of the De Laurent family. My mind raced through the connections: the gallery, the Opera House, the proximity of their enterprises to my family's businesses. Yet until now, I had never encountered her personally.
And then the truth landed like a stone in my chest: She's Eiser's ex-lover.
I recalled the words that had echoed through the tense ballroom earlier, whispered in a way that burned themselves into memory: "HELLO, DARLING." My composure stiffened instinctively. She now stood before me, tall and statuesque, her white gown falling in flawless lines that accentuated her height and poise.
"I didn't notice earlier," I admitted inwardly, my mind briefly sidetracked by envy and awe. "But now that she's standing in front of me… wow. Tall, imposing, confident… and all my grandmother's fault! Had I taken after my mother, I'd be tall too…"
I gave a polite, measured nod, forcing my expression into a professional mask. "Yes, it's nice to meet you as well."
She responded with a slight, knowing smile. "Of course," her voice smooth, confident, carrying an effortless authority. "Having finally been put in charge of organizing this event…"
My gaze lingered on her, watching. There was determination there, quiet but unshakable—a discipline honed through effort and vigilance. My mind drifted momentarily into a trip down memory lane, imagining the weeks she must have devoted to every minute detail:
Studying all the logs and records from start to finish.
Researching the companies connected to each noble family.
Delving into business management books whenever a spare moment appeared.
ALL THE HARD WORK SHE PUT IN.
I realized then that she carried a quiet, personal anxiety beneath her poised exterior. Every gesture, every careful adjustment to her gown or posture, betrayed a concern: that Eiser might find fault with even the smallest detail.
Standing there, watching her, it became clear to me: this woman—Eiser's ex-lover—was far more than a socialite. She was a fighter, a strategist, a woman who had clawed her way to authority and recognition through sheer determination. Her presence was both elegant and calculated, and I understood that she would not allow herself to be underestimated.
I watched the elegant blonde turn away, her presence lingering like an expensive perfume that refused to dissipate. Just as she began to move along the garden path, I called out, my voice calm, deliberate, carrying just enough authority to halt her without seeming forceful.
"And congratulations on becoming the new gallery director."
She paused mid-step, turning back with a bright, genuine smile that seemed to acknowledge more than the words I had spoken. "Oh! Thank you for the warm welcome," she said. There was a subtle bow of her head, graceful, yet faintly strategic. Even in her pretense of modesty, she had acknowledged my position. That tiny concession, however polite, was a crucial piece of the puzzle.
She continued, her gaze sweeping the opulent ballroom with effortless appraisal. "To think you're the owner of this massive, beautiful hotel… I felt a sense of kinship with you, being a fellow female entrepreneur."
The statement landed on me like a splash of cold water. A gallery director. An entrepreneur. I processed the implications almost instantly.
Wait… so this woman, despite her prestigious De Laurent heritage, had gone so far as to disguise herself as someone else's attendant just to attend this party. The audacity was almost comical. The De Laurents were practically royalty in the art world, yet here was their daughter, sneaking past every safeguard I had meticulously set in place, playing the role of a staff member. It was clever, deliberate, and far from accidental.
Logic quickly aligned with instinct. Eiser frequented this hotel for business matters. If her sole goal had been to see him, she would have had far easier opportunities, without risking exposure.
A sharper, more unsettling thought cut through my calculations: perhaps it wasn't Eiser she was here to see at all… but me.
The idea sent a shiver of both intrigue and caution down my spine. I shifted slightly, maintaining my composure while reassessing the situation.
She spoke again, her tone shifting with deliberate ease from polite acknowledgment to familiarity. "I'm a Meuracevian too, but I've been studying abroad for a few years and am in need of new friends. I was hoping we could be good friends, Serena." She said my name deliberately, bold, confident, discarding the formality she had held just moments ago. "I'm sure we'll have a lot to talk about, as there is much you and I have in common."
Her amber eyes locked with mine, intense, unwavering. "…shall we have a brief chat?"
I studied her meticulously: the expensive fabric of her dress, the casual but strategic drop of her noble lineage, the calculated mention of her new directorship, and the audacity of bypassing all my security measures just to initiate this introduction. She wasn't a hanger-on; she was a deliberate, skilled player. And her target, unmistakably, was me.
A rush of mixed emotions surged through me—annoyance at the breach, intrigue at her boldness, and a simmering excitement at the challenge she had just thrown down. My facade, carefully constructed over months of planning this event, remained intact, but the rules of the evening had subtly shifted.
I tilted my head, a faint, amused challenge in my gaze. "I think a brief chat might be in order," I said, ready to step beyond the safe boundary of polite hospitality and enter the calculated territory she had just staked out.