Smoke and Silk

"Every silk thread of elegance was stitched over scars."

The PSE Gala was a place of masks—not literal ones, but the kind money taught you to wear.

Held at the Manila Grand Hall, the annual event gathered the country's most powerful business magnates, dignitaries, and heirs. A showcase of capitalism in its most polished form.

Tonight, Lyra Navarro would stand center stage.

And so would the man who once tried to kill her.

She just didn't know it yet.

Her gown was molten silver, stitched with black accents that hugged her form like water. The neckline was modest—strategic—but the back plunged low, a quiet rebellion. Her hair was twisted into a soft bun, a few strands loose to frame her face. A look of elegance… with sharp teeth.

Dominic was waiting at the foot of the stairs when she emerged from her room.

He wore a black velvet tux, classic cut, no tie. His eyes scanned her once, from her diamond earrings to the slit of her gown.

"You clean up well," she said, her tone cool.

He didn't compliment her.

But his pause said enough.

"You ready?" he asked.

Lyra's lips curved into something unreadable. "Born ready."

The gala entrance was a storm of cameras, flashbulbs, and forced smiles. Dominic's arm circled her waist like it belonged there.

And maybe it did—for tonight.

They moved through the crowd like two predators in silk and steel. Perfect posture. Perfect chemistry. Perfect lies.

Every guest wanted a piece of them.

"Dominic! Elena! Over here!"

"Miss Navarro, how does it feel to be the most envied woman in the country?"

"Is it true you met in Geneva?"

She gave practiced answers. Graceful laughter. Hints of affection.

Dominic remained stoic but attentive. A single hand on the small of her back guided her through the waves of guests. He knew how to move her through power like a chessboard.

It was halfway through the gala when it happened.

The air shifted.

She felt him before she saw him.

A voice—too smooth, too familiar—slid through the crowd.

"Well, well… the prodigal bride returns."

Lyra froze.

Her blood turned to ice.

She turned.

Adrian Navarro.

He stood in a navy suit, hair slicked back, glass of scotch in hand. His smile was exactly as she remembered it—polished, poisonous.

And Dominic noticed everything.

He saw the way Lyra stiffened.

The sudden flicker in her eyes.

The way her lips pressed together like they were holding in fire.

"Mr. Navarro," Dominic said coolly, stepping between them with the kind of subtlety that made it feel like a handshake instead of a shield. "Pleasure."

"Ah," Adrian smiled wider, "the infamous Mr. Velasco. What an honor. I was just welcoming your… fiancée, was it?"

Dominic's voice was steel. "Wife."

Lyra's heart slammed against her ribs.

She hadn't expected to feel anything.

But seeing Adrian again… it was like walking into the fire all over again.

Adrian turned to her. "You look different, Elena. Better, even. Europe must've done wonders for your… transformation."

The emphasis was clear.

Lyra gave him a thin smile. "And you look exactly the same. Like rot under perfume."

Adrian laughed too loudly. "Still charming."

He raised his glass. "To the happy couple."

Dominic's hand slid slightly up her back—a subtle gesture of support, or perhaps a warning.

Lyra leaned in, her voice low. "Try that again, Adrian, and I'll break the other half of your soul."

His smile slipped for a fraction of a second.

But that was all she needed.

Later, on the balcony, away from the crowd, Lyra gripped the marble railing, her breath shallow.

She hadn't prepared for this.

Not tonight. Not like this.

Dominic stood a few feet behind her.

"You know him," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Ex?"

She turned to him. "Try traitor. Fiancé. Would-be murderer. Pick one."

Dominic's expression barely changed. But something cold moved behind his eyes.

"You want him taken down?"

Lyra blinked. "What?"

"I'll ruin him. Quietly. Thoroughly."

She stared at him, trying to read whether it was an act—or something else entirely.

"You'd do that?"

Dominic stepped closer. Not touching. But near enough that she could feel the weight of him.

"I don't care about him," he said. "But I don't like the way you looked after you saw him."

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And how did I look?"

"Like you were back in a place you fought to escape."

Silence.

The wind brushed her skin. Somewhere in the ballroom, violins began to play.

Lyra said softly, "He tried to burn me alive."

Dominic didn't ask for proof.

Didn't offer pity.

He simply said, "Then he's already dead. We just have to decide how public his funeral will be."

They returned to the ballroom thirty minutes later.

Together.

Dominic held her hand now—not just for show, but like an unspoken promise.

Adrian saw them.

And for the first time that night… he looked like the one burning.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of wine, deals, and sharp glances.

They danced once—Dominic's hand on her waist, her body pulled close. The waltz was slow. Smooth. Unscripted.

And for a moment, Lyra forgot where she was.

She forgot the cameras. The lies. The ghosts.

For just one breath of a song, she let herself fall into the illusion that maybe, just maybe…

She was safe.

Back at the estate, after midnight, she stood in her dressing room, the silver gown undone at the back.

She stared at her reflection.

Her scars were invisible now. Hidden beneath silk, secrets, and strategy.

But her heart still ached in quiet places.

A knock.

Dominic stepped inside.

Wordless.

He didn't touch her.

Didn't speak.

He simply set something on her vanity and walked away.

She turned.

A box.

Inside: A new security keycard. Her own encrypted access to the estate. Complete trust.

No passwords. No limitations.

She stared at the card.

And then, after a long, long time, she smiled.

Not because she trusted him.

But because he had just given her a loaded gun.

And neither of them realized who it was pointed at yet.

The past had returned in smoke and silk—but this time, she wasn't the girl who ran from the fire. She was the one who could set the world ablaze.