The night of the long-awaited charity gala arrives. I watch from the sidelines, lingering in the back of the opulent hotel ballroom. Mr. Vasquez is at the center of attention, shaking hands with donors, while Elena stands by him in a stunning emerald gown.
She looks every bit the elegant hostess, smiling and chatting. But occasionally, her gaze darts around, searching. When it lands on me across the room, a flicker of longing crosses her features before she composes herself again.
Partway through the night, a hush falls. Mr. Vasquez takes the podium to announce a series of expansions, including the rumored overseas branch. Applause ripples. Elena's face remains impassive, but I see her fingers tighten around the champagne flute.
After the speech, I slip out to the corridor to breathe. Moments later, Elena appears, breath shallow. "He's really doing it. He'll drag me along if it suits his plan," she whispers, fury and resignation intertwined in her eyes.
I clench my jaw, wrestling with a surge of protectiveness. "Does he ever ask your opinion?"
She snorts softly. "He doesn't have to. I'm just… part of the furniture." Her bitterness stings me. Without thinking, I reach for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She exhales, letting her tension ease into that touch. But we both freeze as footsteps approach. We break apart just in time for a group of donors to pass by, none the wiser to our secret grasp.