Debt Of Honour.

The sunlight in the Vane Estate didn't creep in, it commanded the room. Elara woke up in a bed so large she felt like a child lost in a sea of silk. For a fleeting second, the scent of expensive lavender and the softness of the duvet made her forget. Then, the weight of the previous night crashed down on her-the fire, the contract, and the ink on her fingers that felt like it would never wash off. She sat up, her eyes landing on a rolling rack of clothes positioned at the foot of the bed. They weren't just clothes, they were weapons. A cream-colored sheath dress, a tailored wool coat, and heels that looked sharp enough to draw blood. Next to the rack, shoved into a corner as if it were an eyesore, sat a heavy-duty black dustbin bag. Elara's heart skipped. She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, and tore open the bag. Inside were her things. Her favorite oversized flannel shirt, a pair of jeans stained with grass at the knees, and her old, comfortable sneakers. They smelled like home-smoke and roses. "What on earth are you doing with that trash?" Elara spun around. A woman with a sleek blonde bob and a tape measure draped around her neck stood in the doorway. She was followed by two assistants carrying makeup cases the size of small trunks. "This isn't trash," Elara said, clutching the flannel shirt to her chest. "These are my clothes. Why are they in a bin bag?" The stylist, whose name tag read Sasha, let out a light, melodious laugh. She walked over, gently prying the flannel from Elara's hands as if it were a biohazard. "Darling, the Vane Estate doesn't have 'bins' for things like this. We have incinerators," Sasha said with a wink and a glamorous, sarcastic smile. "But don't worry, Julian didn't have them burned. He just had them... quarantined. Why look at yesterday's rags when you have tomorrow's royalty waiting for you?" "I don't want royalty," Elara snapped, reaching for the bag again. "I want my life back." Sasha's smile softened, turning from sarcastic to surprisingly grounded. She signaled her assistants to start setting up. "Listen to me, Elara," Sasha said, placing a firm hand on the girl's shoulder. "I've dressed every debutante and trophy wife in this city. Most of them are hollow. You? You have fire. But right now, you're a girl in a yellow sundress trying to fight a dragon." "I'm not trying to fight him. I'm trying to survive him," Elara whispered. "Then blend in," Sasha encouraged, her voice dropping to a supportive hum. "If you want to stand a chance of being worthy in their eyes-or better yet, if you want to take them down from the inside-you have to play the part perfectly. Wear the armor, Elara. Let them see the 'Billionaire's Girlfriend,' but keep the florist hidden where they can't touch her. Think of this as your camouflage." Elara looked at the cream dress. It was beautiful, but it felt like a shroud. "Fine. But I'm keeping the sneakers in the bag." Two hours later, Elara didn't recognize the woman in the mirror. Her chestnut curls were tamed into elegant waves, and her skin glowed with the kind of radiance only a four-hundred-dollar serum could provide. The dress fit like a second skin, making her look taller, colder, and far more dangerous. She found Julian in the breakfast nook, reading a digital tablet. He looked up, and for the first time, his calculated expression faltered. His eyes raked over her, a flicker of something-admiration, perhaps-crossing his face before he masked it with his usual frost. "You're late," he said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "Beauty takes effort, or so Sasha tells me," Elara replied, sitting across from him. She ignored the spread of exotic fruits and pastries. "We need to talk. Before the cameras start clicking." Julian set the tablet down. "About?" "Your mother mentioned something last night. About 'demolition error' logs. She said your digital signature was on the final authorization to clear the floral district early." Julian's eyes darkened. "And you believe her? A woman who spent the last decade trying to undermine every move I make?" "I don't know who to believe!" Elara cried, her voice rising. "One of you is a liar, and the other is a shark. If your signature is on those logs, IfJulian, then you didn't just save me. You set the fire so you could play the hero." Julian leaned across the table, his face inches from hers. The scent of sandalwood and cold rain was overwhelming. "If I wanted that land, Elara, I could have taken it a dozen different ways without lighting a match. My mother is playing a psychological game. She wants to drive a wedge between us before the press conference because she knows that together, we are a threat to her control." "If you're framed, prove it," Elara challenged. "I'm working on it. But right now, I need you to focus. If you flinch when I touch you, if you look at the cameras with those accusing eyes, they will tear us apart. And your father's medical funding will disappear with the first headline." He reached out, his fingers brushing the base of her throat as he adjusted the diamond pendant the stylist had insisted she wear. His touch was electric, sending a shiver down her spine that she hated. "Trust me for three hours, Elara," he murmured. "That's all I ask." The lobby of Vane Global was a sea of flashing lights and shouting voices. It was the same place where, only days ago, Elara had been dragged out by security. Now, she was entering on the arm of the prince himself. Julian's grip on her waist was firm, a silent command to stay steady. As they stepped onto the podium, the roar of the press was deafening. "Mr. Vane! Is it true the engagement was supposed to happened hours before the fire?" "Miss Vance, are you marrying for money or for love?" Julian stepped up to the microphone, his voice smooth and commanding. "We understand there are many questions. In light of the tragic accident at the floral district, Elara and I realized that life is far too short to let old rivalries stand in the way of what we feel. We are here today to announce that we are moving forward with our lives together. "A question for Miss Vance!" a reporter from The City Ledger shouted. "How does it feel to be supported by the very man whose company is responsible for the destruction of your family legacy? Is this a romance, or a buyout?" Elara felt the blood drain from her face. Julian's hand tightened slightly on her waist-a warning. Sasha's words echoed in her head: Wear the armor. Blend in. She leaned into the microphone. Her heart was hammering, but her voice was steady. "The fire was a tragedy that took everything from me. But Julian was the only person who stood in the ashes with me. He didn't just offer help, he offered a future. If you want to call that a buyout, that's your choice. I call it a second chance." The room went silent for a heartbeat before the flashing intensified. Julian looked down at her, a genuine look of surprise in his eyes. She had played the part better than he had expected. Julian knelt down with a 200 thousand dollar engagement ring. Gaps filled the air, Elara froze in shock. "Julian" she whispered. "I used to think my heart was just another business asset-until you walked into my lobby and set it on fire. I don't want a life that doesn't have you in it. Elara, will you give me the honor of loving you forever? Marry me." Elara gasped, covering her mouth. Julian looked up, his eyes burning with a faked sincerity that felt terrifyingly real. Elara looked at the cameras and excited crowd eyes wide her voice froze, Julian looked at her smiling and confidence. An unusual feeling of admiration and warmth swept her, then she said "Yes." The crowd erupts in cheers camera light flashes press recording. Julian stood up and gave her a kiss in the forehead. Elara felt a sweet sensational paralysis for a moment resting on his chest. The press conference ended in a blur of handshakes and forced smiles. It wasn't until they were back in the safety of the darkened SUV that Elara allowed herself to breathe. "You did well," Julian said, looking out the window. "Better than well." "What was that," she said flatly. "No heads up," "I lied to the whole world for you." "What if I had said no?" "You lied to protect your father," Julian corrected. "And if you had said no, your father and brother would lose their tuition and medical bill." His voice was cold and decisive. Elara's phone buzzed in her lap. It was a new device Julian had given her, the number private. She frowned, seeing a message from an unknown contact. Check your emails, little bird. The hero isn't who you think he is. Her fingers trembled as she opened the mail app. There was a single attachment: a high-resolution scan of a corporate document. It was a demolition authorization log for the floral district. At the bottom, in clear, unmistakable blue ink, was the digital signature of Julian Vane. The date on the signature wasn't Friday. It was yesterday morning-three hours before the fire started. Elara felt a wave of nausea. She turned to look at Julian, who was calmly checking his own phone. He looked so composed, so perfect. "Julian?" she whispered. "Yes?" She didn't show him the phone. She couldn't. Not yet. If he had done this, if he had authorized the clearing of the land while knowing her father was inside the shop, then she wasn't in a marriage. She was in a death trap. "Nothing," she said, her voice hollow. "I'm just tired." She looked out at the passing city lights, realizing that the glamorous dress and the beautiful makeup were just a cage. She had saved her father's life, but she had handed her own to a man who might have been the one to light the match. The war hadn't ended at the press conference. It was only just beginning.