Chapter 11 – The First Dinner

Ariana had never worn anything that cost more than the security deposit on her last apartment. Until tonight.

The gown shimmered under the golden lights of the penthouse dressing room, a deep emerald green that clung to her curves and swept down to the floor with the fluid grace of poured silk. Her reflection looked foreign—hair styled in smooth waves, makeup subtle but precise, lips the soft red of silent promises. She barely recognized the woman in the mirror.

"I look like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not," she said aloud, half to herself.

Camille, adjusting the back of the dress, smiled faintly. "You're not pretending. You're adjusting."

Ariana exhaled. "Same thing."

"You're a designer, Miss Blake. You know the value of presentation."

That part wasn't the issue. It wasn't the gown, or the hair, or the way her heels made her nearly Leo's height. It was what she had to represent tonight: his fiancée.

Fake. Perfect. Poised.

She had never been good at pretending for long.

"Leo is waiting in the car," Camille added, stepping back. "They'll be expecting you both at The Orabella within the hour."

Ariana forced a nod. "Right. The Orabella."

The name alone made her stomach turn. An invitation-only charity dinner hosted by Cross Enterprises and attended by the city's elite—media moguls, royal investors, Hollywood faces. Ariana had once sketched furniture designs for a restaurant with a distant view of The Orabella. Now she was walking into it on the arm of a man who could buy and sell entire blocks of Manhattan.

With one last look at her reflection, she squared her shoulders and headed for the private elevator.

---

The car was sleek, black, and quiet. Leo sat at the far end of the backseat, clad in an inky tuxedo that fit him like he'd been born into it. No tie, just the open collar of his shirt, casual and calculated. His cufflinks shimmered like starlight—discreet but deliberate.

He glanced up as she slid in.

For the first time since she'd met him, he paused.

His eyes traveled over her figure slowly, not in a vulgar way, but like he was cataloging details with forensic accuracy. Then, softly:

"You clean up well."

She raised an eyebrow. "That's your version of a compliment?"

"It is," he replied without looking away.

"Try harder."

His mouth twitched. "You look beautiful."

And somehow, that single word—beautiful—carried more weight coming from him than any bouquet of praise ever had.

"Thanks," she murmured.

The silence stretched between them, dense but not hostile. The city lights spilled through the tinted windows as they drove. She smoothed her hands over her lap, trying to still the nerves building inside her chest.

"Why this dinner?" she asked after a beat.

"It's tradition. Cross Enterprises hosts one major charity event each quarter. High value guests. Media coverage. Strategic networking."

"And I'm the trophy wife on display."

Leo's jaw ticked. "You're not a trophy. You're a message."

She turned to him. "What kind of message?"

"That I'm human. That I can commit. That I'm not the monster people whisper about behind closed doors."

Ariana blinked.

He said it so plainly, with no hint of vanity or defensiveness. Just fact.

She looked away, watching the skyline slide past.

"You shouldn't have to prove you're human," she said quietly.

"You'd be surprised," he replied. "Some days, I forget myself."

---

The Orabella glittered like a fairytale. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks from vaulted ceilings. Waiters moved like whispers in tailored black. String music floated through the air, elegant and haunting. It was a palace carved into the bones of Manhattan.

Ariana stepped out of the car and onto the carpeted entrance, flashbulbs igniting instantly. The noise surged—camera clicks, shouted questions, murmurs of surprise.

"Is that Leo Cross's fiancée?"

"She's not who I expected…"

"She's stunning."

Ariana held Leo's arm tightly. He leaned in, speaking near her ear without moving his lips.

"Keep your eyes up. Breathe slowly. Smile, but not too wide."

"Jesus, are you coaching me like I'm a hostage?"

"Worse. You're a guest."

She fought a laugh and managed a soft smile for the cameras.

Inside, the ballroom was even more breathtaking. Gold accents everywhere. Florals that must've cost tens of thousands. Tables set with crystal, silver, and names engraved in calligraphy.

Leo led her through the sea of people with casual authority, nodding to CEOs, shaking hands with senators, fielding small talk like a game of chess. Ariana, meanwhile, felt like she was on a treadmill in stilettos.

Every woman looked like a magazine cover. Every man, a mogul.

"Leo," a breathy voice drawled. "You didn't tell me she'd be so... ordinary."

Ariana turned just as a tall blonde woman appeared at Leo's side, wearing a dress that screamed couture venom. Ice-blue eyes. Sculpted cheekbones. Perfect posture.

"And you are?" Ariana asked coolly.

The woman smiled. "Miranda Langston. Leo's ex-fiancée."

Leo stiffened slightly beside her, but Ariana smiled.

"Ah. The prototype."

Miranda blinked.

Ariana leaned in. "It's always awkward when the software upgrade works better."

Leo coughed behind his fist, clearly stifling a laugh.

Miranda's smile thinned. "We were engaged for three years."

Ariana shrugged. "We're getting married in six months. Some things just move faster when they're right."

The conversation fizzled with satisfying awkwardness as Miranda slinked away, and Leo turned to Ariana with a look of frank surprise.

"That was... impressive."

"Thanks. I was channeling every awful woman I've ever met."

"You were also defending me."

She paused. "Didn't realize you needed it."

"I didn't," he said. "But I appreciated it anyway."

They made their way to their table, which was at the center of the room—of course. Ariana barely touched her food. Too many eyes. Too much attention.

"Relax," Leo said under his breath. "You're doing fine."

"How do you know I'm not seconds from snapping?"

He smirked. "Because I know your tells. You haven't rubbed your fingers together once."

She glanced down. Her hands were clenched on her lap, motionless.

He was right.

---

As the night wore on, Ariana found herself talking with strangers who knew her name but not her soul. They complimented her dress, her composure, her charm. They asked invasive questions with glossy smiles. She deflected with grace.

But somewhere near midnight, she stepped out onto the balcony for air.

The city stretched beneath her, lights blinking like a heartbeat.

She braced her hands on the railing and breathed.

"You held your own," came Leo's voice behind her.

She didn't turn. "I still feel like I'm faking it."

"Everyone in that room is faking something."

She glanced at him. He stood beside her, tie loose now, collar undone. Human. Less god, more man.

"I hate this world," she admitted.

He nodded. "So do I."

She looked at him in surprise.

"I thought you thrived on it."

"I thrive despite it."

They stood in silence.

Then she asked, "Was Miranda why you needed this... arrangement?"

He didn't answer immediately. When he did, it was with quiet finality.

"She taught me what betrayal feels like. I haven't forgotten."

Ariana bit her lip. "I'm not her."

"I know."

"I have no reason to hurt you."

"I know that too."

Their eyes met. And something unspoken passed between them. Not trust—not yet. But maybe the beginning of it.

He looked away first, his voice lower.

"You've surprised me, Ariana."

"How?"

"You're not afraid of them."

"I'm afraid of you," she said without thinking.

He turned to her. "Why?"

"Because I think there's more to you than the world gets to see. And I don't know what that means yet."

He didn't respond.

Just stared at her for a long time.

Then, softly: "Let's go home."

---

The ride back was quiet. Ariana leaned her head against the window and watched the city shrink.

When they reached the penthouse, she kicked off her shoes and unzipped the dress without ceremony, tossing it over a chair.

Leo poured himself a drink and stood near the window.

"You should get some sleep," he said.

She nodded.

But she didn't move.

Instead, she looked at him, at the way the night bent around him like he owned it.

"Thank you," she said suddenly.

"For what?"

"For making tonight... bearable."

He didn't smile. But something in his posture shifted.

"You weren't unbearable either," he replied.

She laughed, soft and tired. "Goodnight, Leo."

"Goodnight, Ariana."

She disappeared into her room, heart thudding just a little too fast.

And in the quiet, she realized something that scared her more than any camera flash or tabloid headline.

She didn't hate being beside him anymore.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

---