Chapter 18: Useless

Elara was still in her robe, sitting at her vanity, gently dabbing at the dried blood on her forehead.

The sting was dull now.

But her rage?

Still fresh.

Clara had offered to call a doctor.

She'd refused.

She didn't want witnesses. Not yet.

A sharp knock snapped her attention up.

Before she could respond, the door opened.

Her mother.

Elegant, sharp-jawed, perfume trailing behind her like arrogance.

"Elara," she said without preamble. "Get dressed."

Elara didn't move.

Her mother's lips tightened. "There's a charity gala tonight. The Vale family will be attending. And so will you."

Elara turned slowly, her voice cold. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You are," her mother snapped, striding into the room. "The media is already crawling outside. They caught wind of your little stunt at the press conference. Your face is on every feed, and speculation is eating us alive."

She pointed to the closet.

"I had a gown sent in. It's emerald. Floor-length. Wear it."

Elara didn't respond.

"You will go," her mother said, her tone sharp enough to slice. "You will smile. And you will act like you deserve the man standing next to you."

A beat passed.

"Anything else?" Elara asked dryly.

"Yes," came a new voice.

Vivienne.

Poised in the doorway in heels and a tailored ivory jumpsuit, her arms crossed, eyes sweeping Elara with practiced disdain.

"You'll also put makeup on that mess of a forehead," she said flatly. "We don't need pity headlines tomorrow."

Elara turned slowly.

Vivienne walked in like she owned the floor.

"Honestly, I don't know why Father still tries with you," she added. "You can't obey. You can't charm. You can't even keep your temper in check."

Elara stood.

Clara, in the corner, tensed.

But Elara's voice was calm. Ice thin. "At least I bleed for being real. You bleed people dry without ever getting your hands dirty."

Vivienne smirked. "Poetic. Still useless."

Their mother clapped her hands once. "Enough. You're going. I want you downstairs in one hour."

And with that, the two women swept out, leaving only silence—and Clara.

The maid stepped forward gently. "Shall I get the dress, Miss?"

Elara didn't answer at first.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Let's give them the image they want," she murmured. "Just not the meaning."

---

Later That Night…

The ballroom was a blur of diamonds, champagne, and cameras.

Reporters lingered near the velvet ropes, flashes going off every other second.

Zayden arrived first.

Dressed in a classic black tux, tie loosened just slightly at the collar. That ever-present smirk settled on his lips.

The media swarmed.

Until—

Gasps.

She had arrived.

Elara.

Emerald gown hugging her frame like royalty. Hair slicked back in a low twist. The slash of red on her lips bold, almost mocking.

She was flawless.

Impossibly flawless.

Except—

Zayden's sharp eyes caught it instantly.

Just beneath the concealer. A faint shadow across her right brow. A little too swollen to be dismissed. A bruise. Fading, but there.

He moved to her side instantly.

She gave him a tight smile.

He didn't smile back.

Instead, he leaned in just enough for only her to hear.

> "Who touched you?"

Her lips didn't move, but her eyes flicked up to meet his.

And that was enough.

He saw it.

And Zayden Vale—charming, ruthless, narcissistic Zayden—froze.

His gaze turned molten.

But in the next breath, he slid an arm around her waist and whispered through a grin:

> "Smile, sweetheart. The press is watching. But after this, so is everyone in that mansion."