Chapter 16 — The Revelation #2
“Inside is worse,” he said with brutal honesty. “Outside, they want a photo. Inside, they want blood. They’ll judge your dress, your hair, your posture. They’ll try to figure out where you came from.”
“What do I say?”
“Nothing. You smile. A small, mysterious smile, like the Mona Lisa if she had a dirty secret. You drink champagne. And if anyone asks you a direct question, you say, ‘Ask Ethan.’ You’re untouchable, Maya. Remember that. As long as you’re holding my arm, you’re above them.”
The car stopped.
Through the tinted window, Maya saw the light. It wasn’t streetlights. It was camera flashes. Hundreds of them. An electrical storm concentrated on the sidewalk. A crowd pressed against the velvet barriers. Muffled shouts penetrated the car’s insulation.
“Ready?” Ethan asked.
Maya wasn’t. She felt like she was going to throw up the caviar he’d forced her to eat at lunch. Her legs trembled beneath the heavy velvet. But she looked at the diamond choker reflected in the glass. She looked at the man beside her, who seemed capable of splitting the world in half.
“No,” she said. “But let’s go.”
The driver opened the door.
The sound invaded the car like a physical explosion.
Click-click-click-click-click.
Ethan! Mr. Vance! Over here! Look here!
Who is she? Ethan!
The air was hot and smelled of limousine exhaust and cheap perfume from the crowd.
Ethan got out first. He stood on the sidewalk, tall, imposing, ignoring the shouts as if they were the buzzing of insects. He buttoned his jacket with a casual flick. Then he turned and extended his hand into the car.
Maya looked at his hand. It was large, steady. A lifeboat in the middle of the ocean.
She placed her hand in his.
As she stepped out of the car, the world went white.
The flashes were blinding, aggressive. Maya felt as if pure light were punching her in the eyes over and over. She blinked, disoriented, stumbling slightly on the red carpet.
Ethan’s hand was immediately at her waist. Not a light touch, but a firm, possessive grip, anchoring her against his side.
“Look ahead,” he whispered in her ear, his calm voice cutting through the chaos. “Breathe. One foot in front of the other.”
They began to walk. The red carpet seemed endless. Walls of photographers on both sides shouted orders.
“Companion! What’s your name?”
“Mr. Vance, a smile!”
“The dress! Look back!”
Maya felt like a zoo animal. But then she realized something.
They weren’t shouting insults. They were shouting with hunger. They wanted her image. They were fascinated. The emerald green dress absorbed the flashes, glowing with hypnotic intensity. The diamonds at her neck shot rainbows of cold light.
She felt Ethan’s body beside hers. He was solid as a rock. He walked with a slow, deliberate rhythm, forcing the photographers to wait for him. He didn’t run. Kings don’t run.
And because she was with him, she didn’t run either.
Gradually, the terror gave way to dizzying adrenaline. They were all looking at her. Not as the invisible waitress. But as Ethan Vance’s woman. There was power in that. Borrowed power, yes, but intoxicating.
Maya straightened her spine. She lifted her chin, exactly as Ethan had taught her, displaying the diamond collar.
She heard the tone of the shouts change.
“Goddess! Look here!”
“Magnificent!”
A small smile touched her lips. The Mona Lisa smile with a dirty secret.
Ethan felt the change in her posture. He squeezed her waist, a silent signal of approval.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “Let them look. Let them die wanting.”
They reached the top of the staircase. The double doors of the Grand Palais stood open, guarded by doormen in golden livery who bowed deeply as Ethan approached.
They entered.
If the outside was chaos, the inside was calculated intimidation.
The ballroom was obscenely luxurious. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from a ceiling painted with fake Renaissance frescoes.
The floor was polished marble. Flower arrangements that cost more than organ transplants graced every table.
An orchestra played something classical and soft, muffled by the hum of three hundred wealthy conversations.
The moment Ethan and Maya stopped at the top of the small staircase descending to the main hall, the sound changed.
It was like a wave rippling outward. Heads turned. Conversations died. The silence spread from the center to the edges, until the only sound was the music and the occasional clink of silverware.
Everyone was looking.
Maya felt the weight of three hundred pairs of eyes.
Eyes that assessed, calculated, judged. Women in haute couture looked at her dress, searching for flaws, searching for the invisible label.
Men in tuxedos looked at Ethan with a mixture of reluctant respect and fear, and then looked at Maya with something much simpler: lust.
Ethan paused for a second, letting the silence settle. He was allowing them to look. He was presenting his acquisition.
“Breathe,” he reminded her, his voice low.
They descended the stairs.
The crowd parted. It was biblical. No one stood in Ethan Vance's way. A corridor opened toward the center of the ballroom.
As they walked, Maya began to catch fragments of whispers.
“...who is she?”
“...never seen her before...”
“...look at the diamonds...”
“...Vance brought someone...”
A heavyset man with the red face of someone who'd drunk too much expensive whiskey and eaten too much red meat intercepted them. He had an oily smile and eyes that stripped Maya in a nanosecond.
“Ethan!” the man exclaimed, extending a ring-laden hand. “I thought you wouldn't come. Moretti was betting on it.”
“Senator,” Ethan greeted, shaking the man's hand briefly, his grip devoid of warmth. “I never miss a charity opportunity.”
The Senator's eyes slid to Maya. They lingered on the neckline of her dress, then rose to the choker, and finally to her face. There was a hunger there that made Maya's skin crawl. It wasn't admiration; it was consumption.
“And who is this dazzling vision?” asked the Senator, ignoring the etiquette of waiting to be introduced. “You've been hiding the gold, Ethan.”
Ethan didn't respond immediately. He moved his hand from Maya's waist to the small of her back, his fingers splayed over the velvet, claiming her. The gesture was subtle, but the message was clear: Mine.
“This is Maya,” said Ethan. Just the first name. No surname. No “my girlfriend,” no “my fiancée.” Just Maya. As if she were a singular entity, like Cher or Madonna. Or as if she were an object that didn't need lineage, only an owner.
“Maya,” the Senator repeated, savoring the vowels. “A pleasure, my dear.”
He extended his hand to take Maya's, perhaps to kiss it.
Maya hesitated. She looked at Ethan. His face was impassive, but the hand on her back tensed imperceptibly.
Before the Senator could touch Maya's fingers, Ethan intervened smoothly, blocking the movement with his own body.
“We need to greet the host, Senator. Excuse us.”
He guided Maya away, leaving the politician with his hand extended in the air and a frozen smile on his face.
“He wanted to touch me,” Maya whispered, feeling a chill.
“He wanted to,” Ethan agreed, his voice cold as dry ice. “He's a pig. But he's a useful pig on the zoning committee. That's why I didn't break his fingers. Yet.”
The casual violence in Ethan's words didn't frighten Maya. On the contrary. It made her feel strangely safe. The monster was on her side. He was the dragon guarding the tower, and she was the treasure.
They continued to circulate.
The night became a blur of faces, lights, and champagne.