The morning of the gala arrived faster than I expected.
Priya showed up at the estate before sunrise with an entire team hairstylists, makeup artists, a woman whose only job seemed to be steaming the navy gown until it hung without a single wrinkle. I sat still for hours while hands moved around me, pinning, brushing, painting, until I barely recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror.
"You look incredible," Rosa said softly, standing behind me as the final touches were applied. "Like you were always meant to wear something like this."
I turned side to side, watching the deep navy fabric catch the light, gold thread embroidered delicately along the sleeves and hem, details I'd added myself in the final fitting, small stitches of stars that only showed when the light hit them just right. It didn't look like a dress that had been bought. It looked like art. My art, on my body, for the first time in my life.
"Thank you, Rosa," I said, my voice thick with an emotion I couldn't quite name.
Sasha arrived an hour before we were set to leave, wearing a shimmering emerald gown that made her look like she'd stepped straight out of a magazine spread. She took one look at me and gasped so loudly Rosa nearly dropped the hairpins she was holding.
"Silveria! You look... oh my god, you look like a whole queen. Did you actually design this yourself?"
"Every stitch," I admitted, unable to keep the small proud smile off my face.
"Damien is going to lose his entire mind," Sasha said, grinning wickedly.
"I doubt that," I said, though something fluttered nervously in my chest at the thought of him seeing me like this.
I didn't have to wait long to find out. When I made my way down the grand staircase, Damien was already waiting at the bottom, dressed in a sharp black tux, hands in his pockets, jaw tight like he always looked when he was uncomfortable in social settings. He looked up as I descended, and for a brief, fragile moment, something in his expression cracked open.
His eyes moved over the dress slowly, and I swore, I swore, his breath caught, just slightly, just enough for me to notice.
"You look..." he started, then seemed to reconsider his own words, clearing his throat instead. "The dress is well made."
"Thank you," I said, fighting back a smile at how quickly he'd pulled himself back together. "I designed it myself."
That earned an actual reaction. His eyebrows lifted, genuine surprise flickering across his face. "You made this?"
"Every piece," I confirmed.
He studied the dress again, this time with something closer to real interest, and for a moment, the cold, guarded businessman disappeared, replaced by someone who looked almost impressed. "It's exceptional work."
Coming from a man who rarely offered compliments, it felt like more than it should have. Warmth spread through my chest, unfamiliar and a little frightening in how good it felt.
"We should go," Felix called from the doorway, already dressed and holding two champagne flutes he definitely wasn't supposed to be drinking from yet. "Grandfather Pascal texted. Twice. In all caps. You know what that means."
Damien sighed, the moment between us dissolving as quickly as it had appeared. "Let's go."
He offered his arm, almost mechanically, like it was simply expected of him, and I took it, my hand resting lightly against the fabric of his sleeve. The car ride to the gala was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Sasha and Felix filled the silence with easy chatter, teasing each other about some inside joke from their childhood, while Damien sat beside me, occasionally glancing my way when he thought I wasn't looking.
The gala itself was overwhelming, a massive ballroom draped in gold and white, chandeliers dripping crystal light over hundreds of guests in designer gowns and tailored suits. Cameras flashed the moment we stepped out of the car, reporters shouting questions about the wedding, about Lilibeth, about whether the rumors of a rushed alliance marriage were true.
Damien's hand found the small of my back, steady and firm, guiding me through the chaos without a single word. "Don't answer them," he murmured close to my ear. "Just smile."
I did as he said, plastering on the smile Priya had drilled into me during etiquette lessons, and somehow, we made it inside without incident.
The ballroom was even more dazzling up close, but I barely had time to admire it before an elderly man approached us, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, walking with the kind of authority that made the entire room shift subtly around him.
"Grandfather," Damien said, his tone shifting into something more careful, more measured.
Pascal Crew's eyes moved to me, studying me with an intensity that made my spine straighten instinctively. "So this is the bride," he said finally. "Not the one I was told to expect."
My stomach dropped. This was it, the moment the whole charade would fall apart, right here, in front of hundreds of people.
"Grandfather," Damien said, voice low and warning.
But Pascal simply chuckled, low and rough. "Relax, boy. I know exactly who stood at that altar. Did you think I wouldn't find out? I have eyes everywhere." His gaze returned to me, softer now, almost curious. "Silveria Hitler. The quiet one. I remember you from a business function years ago, you were the girl standing in the corner, holding your sister's purse while she paraded around like she owned the room."
I flushed, embarrassed at being remembered for something so small and humiliating.
"You held yourself with more dignity in that corner than she did in the center of the room," Pascal continued, surprising me. "I always thought the Hitlers picked the wrong daughter to parade around."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I simply said, "Thank you, sir."
"Damien," Pascal said, turning to his grandson, "keep this one close. She's got more spine than the family she came from." Without waiting for a response, he moved on into the crowd, already being pulled into conversation by another guest.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Beside me, Damien looked equally stunned. "That went better than expected," he admitted quietly.
"Does he approve of everything so easily?" I asked.
"Rarely," Damien said, glancing at me with something almost like respect. "You clearly made an impression."
The night stretched on, filled with introductions and small talk I navigated more smoothly than I expected, thanks to weeks of etiquette drilling. Sasha stuck close, true to her word, steering me away from the most tedious conversations and keeping me laughing between them. Felix flitted in and out, charming everyone he spoke to, though I noticed his eyes tracked Sasha more than anyone else in the room.
It was during a quiet moment on the balcony, escaping the noise of the ballroom for a breath of fresh air, that Damien found me.
"You disappeared," he said, joining me at the railing, the city lights spread out below us.
"I needed a minute. It's a lot, all of this."
"It is," he agreed, surprising me with how easily he admitted it. "I still don't enjoy these events, even after all these years."
"Why come, then?"
"Obligation," he said simply. Then, after a pause, "And tonight, curiosity, I suppose."
"Curiosity about what?"
He looked at me for a long moment, the noise of the party a distant hum behind us, the cool night air settling comfortably between us. "About how someone who's had every reason to be bitter still manages to be... kind. Genuinely kind, not performing it for an audience."
I didn't know how to respond to that, my heart hammering loudly in my chest.
"For what it's worth," he continued, voice quieter than I'd ever heard it, "my grandfather doesn't compliment people easily. What he said tonight, he meant it."
"And what about you?" I asked before I could stop myself. "Did you mean what you said about the dress?"
His eyes held mine, something warm and unguarded flickering there for just a moment. "I meant it."
The air between us felt charged, different from anything I'd felt since arriving at the estate. For the first time, it didn't feel like I was standing beside a stranger fulfilling a contract. It felt like something was actually beginning, fragile and uncertain, but real.
Then his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket, breaking the moment entirely. He glanced at the screen, and whatever softness had been in his expression vanished instantly, replaced by the same cold, guarded look I'd first met in his study.
"I need to take this," he said, already walking away. "Go back inside. Enjoy the rest of the night."
I watched him disappear back into the crowd, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight with tension. Something was wrong. I could feel it in the sudden shift of his entire demeanor.
I didn't know it yet, but that phone call was about to pull a thread that would unravel everything I thought I understood about my new husband, and the enemies quietly circling him from the shadows.