Suddenly, the music stopped. The murmur of the crowd died away. The massive oak doors at the top of the grand staircase, which had been closed, began to rumble. The gala’s head of security entered the room with a microphone. He seemed nervous.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “please clear the center aisle. We have a priority arrival.”
“Who could it be?” Isabella whispered.
“The president,” Julian scoffed, “probably the president of Aurora. Look at this. I’ll be the first to shake his hand.”
Julian took a step forward, pulling Isabella with him, and stood right at the bottom of the stairs. He wanted the photo. The CEO of Thorn Enterprises greeting the mysterious investor.
The doors creaked open, but it wasn’t an old Swiss banker in a suit who emerged. The silhouette was female. The figure stepped into the light. A collective, stifled scream rippled through the room, so loud it sucked out all the oxygen in the air.
The woman at the top of the stairs wore a midnight-blue velvet gown encrusted with crushed genuine diamonds that reflected the chandelier’s light like a galaxy. It was majestic, imposing, and utterly breathtaking.
Her hair, usually styled in a messy bun, fell in elegant Hollywood waves. Around her neck, she wore the “Heart of the Ocean,” or a sapphire so large it resembled one.
She didn’t lower her gaze; she stared straight ahead with eyes as cold as steel. Julian dropped his champagne glass. It shattered on the floor, scattering fragments onto Isabella’s shoes. But neither of them noticed.
Julian squinted. His brain couldn’t process what he was seeing. She looked like Elara, but it couldn’t be. Elara was home. Elara was simple. Elara had been eliminated.
The woman began to descend the stairs. Every step was calculated, every movement radiated power. The master of ceremonies announced, his voice slightly trembling:
—Ladies and gentlemen, please stand to welcome the founder and president of the Aurora Group, Mrs. Elara Vane-Thorn.
The silence that followed was deafening. Julian felt his knees tremble. Isabella stared at him, her eyes wide.
—I thought you said I was a housewife.
Elara reached the top of the stairs and stopped a meter away from Julian. She didn’t look at him. She stared right through him at Arthur Sterling, who was bowing his head in respect. Then, slowly, she turned her gaze back to her husband.
“Hello, Julian,” she said. Her voice was amplified by the room’s acoustics. Soft and deadly. “I think there’s been a mistake with the guest list. It seems I’ve been dropped, so I decided to buy the place.”
The flashes were blinding, but Julian felt as if he were in complete darkness. The air in the great hall had become thick, suffocating. He looked at Elara. No, this wasn’t Elara; it was a stranger with his wife’s face.
The Elara he knew wore cotton pajamas and smelled of vanilla. This woman smelled of varnished wood and cold, hard cash. She was taller, with a regal bearing, her chin held high as if the world awaited her permission to turn.
“Elara…” Julian stammered, his confident CEO voice reduced to a pathetic squeal. “What are you talking about? Are you… are you hallucinating? You need to go home. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
He reached out to grab her arm. A reflexive control he’d used thousands of times before. Before his fingers could brush against the velvet of her dress, a massive hand intercepted his wrist.
It was Sebastian Vane, the man Julian believed to be just an anonymous lawyer for the Aurora Group. In person, Sebastian stood 6’4″, had a scar across his eyebrow, and a handshake like a hydraulic press.
“If I were you, Mr. Thorn, I wouldn’t touch the president,” Sebastian growled in a voice so low that only they could hear it, but threatening enough to make Julian shudder.
Isabella Ricci, sensing her moment in the spotlight slipping away, stepped forward. She swept her hair back, trying to regain control of the situation.
“Oh, please, this is ridiculous. Julian, tell your little housewife to get back to her gardening duties. This is a business gala, not a costume party. Who does she think she is, ruining our evening?”
Elara finally glanced at Isabella. She didn’t seem angry, she didn’t seem jealous. She looked at Isabella the way a scientist looks at a sample of bacteria in a petri dish. Slightly interesting, but ultimately insignificant.
—Isabella Ricci— Elara said calmly. —A former Versace model, fired in 2021 for unprofessional conduct, who currently barely pays the rent for a studio in Soho, which just so happens to be owned by a subsidiary of the Aurora Group.
Isabella was speechless.
—How do you know everything?
“My dear,” Elara said, approaching her. “I know you’ve been charging your Uber rides to Julian’s corporate card. I know you’re wearing a rental dress that you have to return tomorrow at nine.
And I know you think you’ve caught a big fish.” Elara looked at Julian with a twinkle of amusement in her eye. “But you haven’t caught a whale, Isabella. You’ve caught a remora, a parasite attached to a much larger host.”
Elara turned her back on them and faced the crowd of astonished billionaires.
“Arthur,” he said, extending his hand to Arthur Sterling.
Arthur Sterling, the titan of industry, didn’t hesitate. He took her hand and kissed the ring, a sapphire ring with the Aurora crest.
—Madam President, I had heard rumors that the Aurora Group was headed by a woman, but I never suspected it. Well, it’s an honor.
“The honor is all mine, Arthur.” Elara smiled. A dazzling, professional smile that Julian had never seen before. “I apologize for the delay. My husband seems to have misplaced my invitation. Shall we move to the main table? We need to discuss a merger.”
“But… but I’m the keynote speaker!” Julian shouted, desperation clawing at his throat. “This is my company, Thorn Enterprises!”
Elara paused. She turned her head slightly over her shoulder.
“n the comments what you would have done in the protagonist’s place.
