~Gabriella Vance~ The bass from the penthouse lounge downstairs bled through the floorboards, a heavy, rhythmic thrum that vibrated right up through the soles of my heels.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, looking out over the glittering sprawl of the city skyline, but my focus was entirely inward.
Something felt…
wrong.
A strange, leaden heaviness was creeping into my limbs, turning my blood sluggish and thick.
My fingers felt clumsy as I rested my glass of champagne against the cold sill.
It didn’t make sense.
I barely touched alcohol—everyone in our circle knew I couldn’t hold my liquor, which was why I always nursed a single glass for hours at these high-profile events.
Yet, my tongue already felt thick, and a dry, bitter metallic tang was coating the back of my throat, sharp and entirely out of place.
Am I getting sick?
I wondered, pressing my fingertips against my temples where a dull, rhythmic ache had just begun to throb.
Did I mix something up?
“Penny for your thoughts, my love.” Oliver’s voice murmured right beside my ear, rich and smooth as velvet.
His hand slid effortlessly around my waist, pulling me back against the solid, reassuring heat of his chest.
He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the bare skin just below my ear, entirely unbothered by the crowded room around us.
I blinked slowly, trying to clear the sudden, cotton-like fog rolling into the edges of my mind.
I leaned into him out of pure instinct, letting his familiar strength anchor me.
If I had known—if I had possessed even a fraction of an inkling that the man holding me with such tender, worshipful devotion was currently carving out the foundations of my entire life, that the best friend laughing with the editors across the room was already sharing his bed, that every whispered vow and soft touch was nothing more than a calculated act to keep me blind, deaf, and obedient—I would have shattered the glass in my hand and screamed until the city shook.
Instead, I just smiled up at him, completely oblivious, handing my fate over to the monster wearing my husband’s face.
——— The silk of the vintage dress felt smooth against my skin, but it was Oliver’s hands on my bare shoulders that made me breathe in the sheer, dizzying perfection of my life.
I caught his reflection in the illuminated vanity mirror as my makeup artist, Antoine, dusted a final touch of highlighter onto my cheekbones.
Oliver was already tailored to perfection in a custom charcoal tuxedo.
His eyes, warm and impossibly blue, met mine through the glass.
Leaning down, he pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to the curve of my neck, careful not to smudge my rouge.
“Two years of dating, twelve months of marriage, and I still forget how to breathe when you walk into a room,” he murmured, his voice rich and steady—the same gentle, anchoring voice that had swept me off my feet three years ago.
I smiled, a genuine, glowing expression that required no effort.
“You said that two nights ago at dinner.” “And I’ll say it at our fiftieth anniversary, Mrs.
Anderson.” He squeezed my waist gently before stepping back to let Antoine hand me a glass of chilled champagne.
Two days ago, we had celebrated our first wedding anniversary on a private yacht anchored off the coast, just the two of us under a sky full of stars.
He had gifted me a restored 1920s Cartier timepiece, whispering that every second with me was a privilege.
He was, by every metric, the ideal husband—patient, fiercely protective, endlessly supportive of my modeling career, and unfailingly soft with my heart.
People called me lucky, I knew I was blessed.
“Two minutes, Mr.
and Mrs.
Anderson,” the coordinator announced, poking her head through the dressing room door.
“The red carpet is ready.” Oliver held out his arm, his smile easy and reassuring.
I took it, leaning my weight against him for a brief second just to feel the solid reality of him.
The moment the heavy double doors of the grand hotel ballroom opened, a wall of white light erupted.
The gala was the event of the season, and the paparazzi were practically climbing over the velvet ropes.
Lenses clicked in a deafening, rhythmic frenzy, shouts echoed from every direction as photographers competed for our attention.
“Gabriella!
Over here!” “Oliver, look left!
Give us a smile!” “How was the anniversary trip?
Is it true Oliver bought you an island?” “Gabriella, look at your husband!” Oliver didn’t flinch.
With the effortless grace of a man accustomed to power, he kept one firm, protective hand placed standardly at the small of my back.
Whenever the flashbulbs got too intense, he inclined his head toward me, whispering small, private jokes in my ear that made me laugh—a candid moment every camera in the venue scrambled to capture.
He pulled me slightly closer as a reporter thrust a microphone forward, asking the secret to our fairytale romance.
Oliver looked down at me, his expression softening with an adoration so raw it made my heart swell until it almost ached.
“There’s no secret,” Oliver said smoothly into the mic, his arm wrapping around my waist.
“I just got incredibly lucky, and I spend every day making sure she never regrets saying ‘I do.'” The crowd of press audibly sighed, standard flashes turning into a blinding storm.
I looked up at my husband, my heart overflowing, completely over the moon.
I leaned into his touch, utterly safe, utterly adored, and completely unaware that the fairytale was about to burn to the ground.
The air inside the grand ballroom was thick with the scent of white orchids, expensive perfume, and champagne.
I moved through the crowd with the fluid grace that had made me a runway staple, my hand resting lightly on Oliver’s arm as we navigated the tide of high-society guests.
“Ah, there he is,” Oliver murmured softly, nodding toward a corner of the ballroom where a silver-haired man in an immaculate double-breasted tuxedo stood surrounded by a cluster of diplomats.
“Uncle Daniel.” Daniel Cross was a pillar of the philanthropy world—a man whose foundation poured millions into global art initiatives and humanitarian aid.
He was also Oliver’s favorite relative, the uncle who had mentored him after his parents passed.
“I should go pay my respects before he gets cornered by the board,” Oliver said, turning to me with that warm, familiar warmth in his eyes.
He kissed the back of my hand, his lips lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle.
“Will you be alright for a few minutes, my love?” “Of course,” I smiled, watching as Oliver wove through the crowd toward Daniel.
I saw the older man’s face light up with a genuine smile as he clapped Oliver on the shoulder, the two of them instantly falling into deep, low-toned conversation about the night’s auction funds.
“Look at you, floating around like you own the place,” a familiar, honeyed voice purred from behind me.
I turned to see Sienna Blake stepping through the crowd, looking breathtaking in a liquid-gold gown.
Sienna wasn’t just a fellow model; she was my closest confidante, the person who had held my hair back during fashion weeks in Paris and sat in the front row at my wedding.
“Sienna!” I beamed, reaching out to embrace her.
Sienna hugged me tightly, stepping back to take me in with an appreciative sweep of her eyes.
“Darling, you look utterly sickening.
Truly, it’s unfair to the rest of us.” Sienna’s gaze dropped to the sparkling vintage Cartier pendant resting against my collarbone.
She gasped, leaning in closer.
“Oh, my God.
Gabriella…
the necklace.
Is this what I think it is?” “The anniversary gift,” I confessed, a flush of pure happiness warming my cheeks.
“Oliver had it restored.” “It’s exquisite,” Sienna breathed, her fingers lightly touching the edge of the diamond casing with a look of awe.
“The craftsmanship…
he really worships the ground you walk on, doesn’t he?
A handsome, devoted billionaire who buys museum-quality jewelry just to see it on your neck.
You’re living in a fairytale, El.” Two other socialites—a high-fashion editor and the daughter of a banking dynasty—drifted into their circle, glasses of champagne in hand.
“We were just swooning over the anniversary piece,” Sienna told them, slanting a warm, proud look toward me.
“Oliver really set the bar dangerously high for every other man in this room.” “Honestly, it’s sickening how perfect you two are,” the editor laughed, raising her glass.
“The press outside is already calling it the picture of the decade.” I took a slow sip of my champagne, my gaze drifting back across the crowded floor.
Across the ballroom, Oliver was laughing at something Daniel said, looking every bit the refined, generous gentleman I had fallen in love with two years ago.
He glanced up, caught my eye through the sea of tuxedos and gowns, and blew me a subtle, private kiss before returning to his uncle.
I felt a surge of warmth so intense it almost made me dizzy.
Standing there among my peers, surrounded by luxury, admiration, and the adoration of a perfect husband, I had never felt more secure.
Sienna took a slow sip of her champagne, her sharp gaze scanning the sea of tuxedos and sweeping gowns around them.
“Speaking of your inner circle…” Sienna leaned in, lowering her voice slightly as her eyes darted over my shoulder.
“Where is Theodore tonight?
I’ve been looking all over the ballroom for him, and I haven’t spotted that gorgeous head of hair anywhere.” I let out a soft, affectionate laugh at the mention of closest creative confidant.
“He’s trapped at his desk,” I replied, smiling fondly.
“He called me right before I got into makeup, practically hyperventilating.
He said he couldn’t make it tonight because he’s completely buried under Vogue’s new high-fashion editorial brief.” “Vogue?” Sienna’s eyebrows shot up, a mix of sympathy and sheer envy in her eyes.
“Well, as much as I miss his gossip, I suppose that’s the one acceptable excuse to ditch an event like this.
If Theodore is burning the midnight oil over a Vogue brief, it means you’re about to land something massive.” “Fingers crossed,” I murmured, taking a light sip from my flute.
“He swore he wouldn’t sleep until every slide and mood board was perfect.
You know how he gets when Vogue is involved—total perfectionist mode.” “God, tell me about it,” Sienna chuckled, swirling her glass.
“Well, give him my love when he finally emerges from his fashion bunker.” She tapped her glass gently against mine.
“At least you have your handsome prince to keep you company tonight.” Across the room, Oliver was still locked in deep conversation with Daniel Cross, looking polished and commanding.
He caught me looking at him, broke away from his uncle’s side for a fraction of a second, and offered me a soft, devastatingly handsome smile before returning to his discussion.
My heart fluttered happily.
“Yes,” I whispered softly, my eyes lingering on my husband.
“I really do.” ———