The music was soft, expensive. The kind meant to be ignored.
Selene Hart adjusted the strap of her dress as she stepped out onto the balcony, away from the velvet chatter and staged laughter inside. The Ashcroft Gala was as overdone as always—glittering gowns, stiff cocktails, and too many people pretending they weren't watching each other.
She wasn't here to make friends. Just an appearance.
She gripped the stone rail and stared out at the Velora skyline. From this height, the city looked peaceful. From the ground, it was a war zone of business politics, billion-dollar betrayals, and headlines waiting to happen.
Behind her, the balcony door slid open.
She didn't have to look to know who it was. The air shifted. Cleaner. Sharper.
"Selene Hart," he said evenly.
She turned, expression unreadable. "Lucian Vale. The ghost billionaire finally shows."
Lucian's suit was black, tailored to perfection. No tie. No smile. Just a controlled presence and eyes that saw too much.
"I don't attend these things for small talk," he replied.
"Then we're on the same page."
They stood in silence, the tension as crisp as the night breeze. He glanced at her, slow and deliberate.
"You're on tonight's donor list," he said. "But HartSpace isn't."
Selene tilted her head. "Observant."
"Strategic," he corrected. "I pay attention when powerful people start hiding moves."
She let out a quiet laugh. "So you came out here to warn me?"
"I came out here because your name is trending—for the wrong reasons."
He handed her a folded phone. A headline blared across the screen:
"Selene Hart Spotted Leaving Midtown Tower: Affair or Merger?"
She blinked once. "I was in a meeting."
"They don't care."
"And you do?"
Lucian looked at her like he was calculating something. "Not personally. But I don't like messy headlines near my name. And your photo was taken outside my building."
Selene sighed, gaze dropping to the city below. "Velora is full of vultures."
"No. It's full of investors," he said. "And they don't bet on chaos."
Before she could respond, a PR rep approached from the ballroom with a forced smile.
"Mr. Vale. Ms. Hart. Sorry to interrupt, but the press is asking questions. If either of you could make a joint statement—just to cool the noise…"
Lucian didn't miss a beat. "We're engaged."
Selene choked. "Excuse me?"
He turned to her, his expression calm. "Temporary. Strategic. A fabricated engagement quiets the press and protects your business—and mine."
The rep's eyes widened. "Oh. That would... actually solve a lot."
Selene folded her arms. "Lucian, I don't fake things."
He met her gaze, cool and steady. "You're not faking anything. You're protecting what you've built. Or you can let gossip dictate your next investor call. Your choice."
She hated it. Hated that he was right. Hated how he always made logic sound like a trap she walked into willingly.
And most of all, she hated that some part of her—quiet and tired—was considering it.
She took a breath. "If we do this, I call the terms."
Lucian's mouth almost twitched. "Naturally."
The PR rep beamed. "Congratulations, then."
Selene didn't flinch. Not even when Lucian stepped closer, offering a hand for the cameras just behind the glass.
She took it. Firm grip. No emotion.
Two strangers. One plan.
And terms neither of them fully understood yet.
The ballroom glittered like a diamond cut too sharp. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above, casting golden light across silk dresses, glass flutes, and calculated laughter. Waiters moved like ghosts in tailored white, offering caviar on polished silver trays and champagne poured from bottles older than most of the guests.
Lucian's hand rested loosely around Selene's, just enough for the press to catch the implication. Just enough to spark speculation.
Behind them, a camera flashed. Then another.
She forced a smile—not too bright. Not too real. She'd learned long ago that power wasn't loud. It whispered in looks, in perfectly timed exits, and in the details—like the subtle way Lucian guided her toward the center of the ballroom without saying a word.
Everywhere they passed, people turned. Whispers trailed them like perfume.
"The two heirs... finally merging?"
"Smart move. PR gold."
"Fake, obviously. But beautiful."
Selene's smile tightened. She leaned toward him, voice low. "If you're going to walk me through a minefield, at least warn me where not to step."
Lucian's jaw didn't move. "You said you wanted control. Start acting like it."
Her heels clicked against marble as they reached the center of the floor—under a dome of stained glass lit from within. The floor beneath them was imported Italian marble veined with gold. The kind of extravagance only old money could afford without blinking.
A server offered them drinks on a tray. Selene picked the champagne without hesitation.
Lucian declined. "I don't drink."
"Of course you don't," she murmured, sipping slowly.
An older woman approached. Platinum hair, emerald necklace, lips painted with cruelty. "Lucian. Darling. I didn't know you were finally in the market for something more… emotional."
Selene turned. "And you are?"
The woman blinked, surprised.
Lucian answered, tone smooth. "Selene, this is Constance Vale. My stepmother."
Selene raised her glass slightly. "Ah. Family."
"Extended," Lucian corrected.
Constance smiled tightly. "Well. It's good to see Lucian with someone charming for once. Let's hope you're not just another flash of ambition."
Selene didn't flinch. She stepped closer. "If I were, I'd still be brighter than most of the burnt-out bulbs in this room."
Lucian coughed once. It might've been a laugh. Might've been approval.
Constance's smile vanished. She turned and walked off with the rustle of offended wealth.
Selene finished her champagne in one slow sip.
Lucian watched her, expression unreadable. "You're good at that."
"What?"
"Turning claws into silk."
"I've had practice," she said. "You grow up quick when your father names his company after you but still forgets your birthday."
He didn't reply.
A beat passed. A piano began to play something soft in the background, drowning out the clatter of plates and the hollow praise of old men who had long since stopped working but hadn't stopped collecting.
Lucian looked at her, not with sympathy, but something else. Something that recognized the sharp edges behind the gloss.
"You want out of here?"
Selene arched a brow. "Thought we had a show to sell."
"The scene's set. Let them fill in the story."
She hesitated. But only for a second.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm not getting into one of those stretched-out limos with a bar and Bluetooth jazz."
Lucian smirked. "Good. I sent the driver home."
He led her to a private exit behind the ballroom. The hallway was quieter here, lined with abstract art and the hush of wealth that didn't need attention to make noise. A glass door opened with a quiet hiss, revealing a matte black McLaren waiting under discreet lights. Clean. Sleek. Silent power.
Selene slid in without a word.
Lucian joined her, starting the engine with a hum that felt like confidence made sound. He didn't ask where she wanted to go. He just drove—through the city like he owned it, and maybe he did.
Lights passed overhead in a blur. Her phone buzzed in her bag—press inquiries, board members, her assistant.
She ignored them all.
For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she had to lead.
But that was dangerous too.
Because with Lucian Vale, every silence felt like a contract. Every glance, a challenge.
And she wasn't sure who would sign first.