Though the invitation seemed like the wrong term, it had come that morning. It was more of a directive—a glossy, gold-embossed card calling us to the Gala for Hope, a special charity event run by none other than Eleanor Blackwood.
I replied straight forwardly, holding the card up as Noah walked into the living room: "I assume we're going."
His eyes veered to the invitation and back to me, then non-negotiable.
Under my breath, I said, "Of course it is," then sighed and laid the card down.
Noah browsed; his cool attitude annoying. "You'll have to get ready. As Mrs. Blackwood, this will be your first public appearance; they will be watching very intently.
My irritation boiling over, I asked.
"The press, the board, my family," he replied, his voice firm but with a little edge of caution. "The true test is this one. Give them no cause to question us.
I choked back a response even though I revolted at his tone. This never was about me—never is.
The hours before the gala went in a haze of getting ready. Arriving with a rack of couture gowns, one more ostentatious than the next, a stylist
Holding out an elegant emerald gown, the stylist continued, "this one." "It is lovely but bold. Excellent for leaving a lasting impression.
Numbly nodding, I let myself be shaped into the ideal picture of a social bride. Hair, cosmetics, jewellery—each element painstakingly chosen.
Noah was waiting at the door, changing the cufflinks on his custom tuxedo when I at last left my room. His eyes raised and for a moment—just a moment—something flared in his face.
His voice neutral, he added, "You look... appropriate."
"High praise," I said dryly, but beneath his inspection my cheeks flushed.
He turned slightly and extended his arm. Shall we now?"
The dinner took place in a long ballroom covered in white and gold. Overlooking the throng of well-groomed aristocrats, crystal lights glowed warmly.
As we walked in, everyone turned to face us. Whispers floated around the room, hardly hidden below courteous graces and inquisitive looks.
Noah's ever so tiny tightening of my arm served as either a quiet comfort or maybe a warning.
"Smile," he said softly and under his breath. Like you intend it.
I faked a grin, every thread of my being acutely conscious of the scrutiny all around us.
Eleanor arrived first; her dominant presence was just as usual. She gave a weak, rehearsed grin, but her eyes sparkled with hardly disguised judgement.
"Isla," she answered elegantly. "I'm glad you could come along."
"I wouldn't miss it," I said, with as much elegance as I could. Her tone matched exactly.
She looked at Noah, her face softening just little. You need to bring her before the board members. They would like to meet the lady behind the headlines.
Noah nodded sharply, pointing me in the direction of several elderly men and ladies gathered close to the bar. I tried to exude confidence as he made introductions, carefully diplomatically responding to their polite but probing enquiries.
"So, Mrs. Blackwood," remarked one of the board members, his tone quite laid back. "What motivated you to back up the foundation? "
Noah's eyes shot to me; his face inscrutable.
"I think in giving back is important," I added gently, repeating the sentences I had practiced. "The work of the foundation fits my values."
Though it was not a lie, it was not totally accurate either.
Selene showed in, gliding across the room like she owned it, just as the discussion started to cool down. Her grin was warm—too warm—when her eyes met Noah; her attire was simple but lovely.
"Noah," she whispered with honeyed voice. "I was wondering when you might show up."
"Selene," he said, his voice courteous but detached.
Her eyes went to mine, her grin hardening. And Isle. I assume your first gala is making you happy. — "
"It's been enlightening," I added, grinning coolly in line with her tone.
Unspoken but tangible, the conflict between us buzzed.
The evening passed, a never-ending procession of champagne, handshakes, and small conversation. As I felt I would have made it through unharmed, an unexpected voice broke my brittle calm.
"Well, isn't this unexpected?""
I turned to see Markus a few feet distant, his face covered in a haughty smile. Breath seized, terror building in my chest.
Noah moved forward right away to sit between Markus and myself. Though his stance was serene, he exuded quiet might.
Noah responded coldly, his voice low and firm, "You're not welcome here."
Markus grinned and totally ignored him. "Relax; I'm here to catch up with an old friend..."
"Leave," Noah ordered with a stern enough tone to cut glass.
Markus stopped, obviously pondering his alternatives. But Noah's posture changed subtly—a subdued, silent threat—enough to push him back into the throng.
Noah looked to me, his countenance steely yet worried, as soon as Markus vanished.
"Are you alright? His voice quieter now, he asked.
I nodded, still with shaking hands. " Thank you."
His eyes stayed on me for a second more before he turned away, his composure restored. "Stay right next to me for the evening."
Again nodding, too disturbed to dispute.
The weight of the evening pressed tightly between us as the automobile journey back to the penthouse remained quiet.
"Why did you act like that? I broke the silence by asking at last.
He turned to look at me, his face insensible. "Because I said I would protect you."
And once again there was that strong, relentless certainty. Noah had maintained his commitment even with all his shortcomings and secrets.
"Thanks," I responded softly.
His eyes softened, then he turned away. Just momentarily. "Take some time to relax." You'll find it necessary.
That evening, I laid in bed and couldn't get rid of the image of Noah walking between me and Markus, his cool authority slicing through the turmoil. I asked myself for the first time if there was more to him than I had assumed—something deeper, something worth looking at.
Still, the question persisted: Could I rely on him, or was this only another component of his well-manicured persona?