ADAPTING TO PRIVILEGE

Luxury, as it turned out, was an exhausting full-time job.

Adelina sat at the edge of a velvet chaise lounge, struggling to decide whether she was supposed to cross her legs or angle them a certain way. She had already changed outfits three times—none of which she had chosen herself—and now, with Mira's eagle eyes watching her like a coach before a championship match, she felt like a very overdressed imposter.

"No, no. Chin up, shoulders back. You're not a Victorian ghost bride," Mira scolded playfully. "You're a Gavrila. Pretend you were born knowing how to destroy someone's reputation with a smile."

Adelina groaned softly. "Can I destroy them with a fork instead?"

Mira laughed. "Wrong kind of event. Save the cutlery violence for boardroom lunches."

In the days since the family dinner, Adelina had been trying—really trying—to learn how to live this life. There were etiquette sessions, endless wardrobe fittings, lessons on Gavrila Holdings, even speech coaching to help her recover "poise." None of it came naturally. She still struggled to walk in heels without wobbling, couldn't figure out how to use half the gadgets in her room, and had nearly broken a priceless glass vase thinking it was a humidifier.

Mira was patient. Mostly. But the weight of her new life was growing heavier.

And tonight, she would wear it in public.

The car ride to the charity gala was silent. Nathan sat beside her, dressed in a sharp midnight suit, his tie perfectly knotted, his cufflinks understated but heavy. His presence was enough to make the air inside the vehicle feel charged.

"You don't have to speak much," he said quietly, not looking at her. "Just smile, stay close to me, and if anyone touches you, I'll break their fingers."

Adelina stared at him. "That's comforting."

He finally glanced at her. "I'm serious."

She believed him.

The gala was held in a private art museum downtown. Security was tight. Staff were immaculate. Waiters floated with champagne and caviar canapés. The guests—all glittering in silk, satin, and status—turned toward the entrance as the Gavrila family arrived.

Victor led the way, flanked by Cassandra and Stefan. Nathan and Adelina followed at a deliberate pace. Nathan's hand lightly touched the small of her back—a silent leash.

The flash of cameras began the moment they entered. Adelina forced a smile.

She had seen photos like these before, as a bystander. Now, she was part of the headline.

The Gavrila name was a weight. She could feel it pressing down on her as guests approached with smiles too sharp and voices too smooth. They praised her recovery, complimented her dress, hinted at alliances and invitations. But their eyes weren't kind.

They were assessing.

Every step she took, every word she said, was being catalogued.

"You look radiant, Adelina," one older man said, his cologne chokingly strong. He reached for her hand, kissing it with a little too much pressure.

"She does," another woman added, tone syrupy. "You must be so proud, Nathan."

Nathan didn't smile. "I'm always proud of her."

Adelina caught the way the woman blinked, as if taken aback by the intensity of his tone.

Around them, the power dynamics pulsed. People bowed to Victor, avoided Cassandra's gaze, laughed too eagerly at Stefan's jokes. But when Nathan walked by, they shifted aside—not out of deference, but wariness.

And when Adelina spoke, they listened.

Not because of her.

But because of *him*.

She managed a decent performance. Smiled when appropriate. Nodded when she didn't understand. Mira had briefed her on names, faces, scandals. She survived two hours without spilling wine or misnaming anyone.

Then she met him.

Leonard Vasili.

Early forties. Tall. Handsome in the way rich men often were—perfect suit, perfect teeth, eyes that lingered too long. He introduced himself as a partner in a global tech firm.

"And you must be the youngest flower of the Gavrila house," he said, voice low and amused. "You were a ghost before the accident. I'm pleased to see you've returned to the living."

She gave a polite smile. "Thank you."

"I've heard you were sheltered," he said, stepping closer. "Must be strange, being out in the world now. So many new experiences waiting."

There was a glint in his eyes she didn't like.

"I manage," she replied, taking a small step back.

He followed.

"I hope you won't vanish again. Some of us are just starting to appreciate your presence."

He reached as if to touch her arm.

A hand caught his wrist mid-air.

Nathan.

He was there before Adelina could speak. His grip was vice-like. His expression—dead calm.

"I'd appreciate it," Nathan said softly, "if you kept your distance."

Leonard chuckled, trying to recover his charm. "Come now, Nathan. I was just making conversation."

Nathan's grip didn't loosen.

Adelina could see the way Leonard's fingers twitched.

"This one doesn't make conversation," Nathan said. "She doesn't waste time on people who hide intentions behind compliments."

There was silence. Eyes turned. A quiet tension.

Leonard gave a short laugh and stepped back, nursing his wrist.

"Still possessive, I see."

Nathan didn't respond. He turned to Adelina and gently took her hand.

"Let's go."

He led her away, not speaking until they reached a quieter hall outside the gallery.

"Are you okay?"

Adel nodded, her voice stuck in her throat. "Yes. Just… shaken."

Nathan looked down at her, something dangerous flickering in his eyes.

"I told you," he said. "If anyone touches you—"

"I know," she whispered. "You meant it."

He exhaled slowly, then reached up to brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

"You don't have to do this alone."

"I know," she said again, quieter.

But before either of them could say more, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.

A message.

From an unknown number.

 *They're all watching you. But I know who you really are.*

Adelina's blood ran cold.

Nathan saw her expression shift.

"What is it?"

She showed him the screen.

His jaw tightened.

"Come with me. Now."

He turned, already dialing someone, his voice low and clipped.

Adelina followed, her heart racing, questions spiraling.

Who knew?

Who had sent that message?

And more terrifyingly—what exactly did they know?