Chapter 125: The Waltz of Lies

Leitana’s eyes darted around the moment they stepped inside.

The grand ballroom unfolded before her like a dream made of gold and shadow. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the vaulted ceiling, scattering light across marble floors veined with black and gold.

Massive arched windows overlooked manicured gardens lit by torchlight. Large drapes in deep burgundy framed every doorway. Waiters in black tie glided between guests carrying trays of champagne flutes and delicate canapés. Music, a slow, haunting waltz floated from a live string quartet hidden on a raised dais. Everyone wore masks: feathered, jeweled, gilded, animal-shaped. Faces half-hidden, secrets fully exposed.

It was grand. Beautiful. Terrifying.

Leitana didn’t notice the stares at first, she didn’t see the way heads turned, conversations paused, eyes lingered on the emerald gown that clung to her like sin, on the long dark curls cascading down her back to brush the curve of her pert, rounded ass, on the deep plunge of her neckline that framed her full breasts like an offering. She was too busy trying not to trip over her own feet in the unfamiliar heels Lafu had insisted on.

Lafu leaned close, her voice low under the music.

“Everyone’s looking at you, Madame Élodie,” she murmured in French, lips barely moving. “You’re drawing attention. That’s good. But we have to interact, properly. Don’t stand like a statue. You’re an eccentric French billionaire. Rich. Bored. Looking for something… exquisite. Play the part.”

Leitana swallowed, nodding once.

“Oui, Camille,” she whispered back in perfect French. “Mi—je vais essayer.”

They began to circulate slowly. Lafu stayed at her side, translating when needed, voice smooth and professional. They spoke to a silver-haired couple first, art collectors who asked polite questions about Leitana’s “portfolio.” Leitana answered in soft, melodic French, letting Lafu relay everything in English. She kept her responses vague, mysterious, eccentric exactly as rehearsed. The couple smiled, charmed, and moved on.

They drifted toward another group, three men in tailored tuxedos, masks shaped like ravens. One of them spoke fluent French, complimenting Leitana’s gown with practiced elegance. She smiled behind her gold-and-emerald filigree mask, thanked him in French, let Lafu steer the conversation toward “sponsorship opportunities” in the modeling world.

The man’s eyes gleamed.

“Perhaps we can discuss private arrangements later,” he said smoothly in French. “Discretion is everything at events like this.”

Leitana’s stomach twisted, but she kept her face serene.

Then….a presence.

Tall. Broad. Moving through the crowd with confidence.

He stopped in front of her.

A black mask covered the upper half of his face, edged in silver. Dark hair swept back. Sharp jaw. Expensive tuxedo tailored to perfection. He carried himself like someone used to commanding rooms without raising his voice.

He looked straight at Leitana.

“You’ve captured my interest,” he said in English, voice low, warm, amused. “Completely.”

Leitana turned to him, startled.

Lafu stepped smoothly between them, voice calm and professional in English.

“I’m sorry, sir. My employer doesn’t speak English. She understands a little, but she only speaks French.”

The man’s lips curved.

“Is that so?”

He switched effortlessly to flawless French.

“Dans ce cas… permettez-moi de me présenter correctement.” (In that case… allow me to introduce myself properly.)

He bowed slightly, elegant, old-world.

“Elias Monroe.”

Leitana’s eyes went wide behind her mask.

Elias Monroe.

The nice man from her very first party in America, the one who’d made her laugh, made her feel safe, made her forget how out of place she was. The one Ravial had seen holding her hand and nearly lost his mind over.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She couldn’t tell him who she really was.

She couldn’t let him know Leitana was here pretending to be someone else, investigating the very world he was part of.

She forced a small, regal smile and replied in perfect French.

“Enchantée, Monsieur Monroe. Je m’appelle Élodie Duval.” (Pleased to meet you, Mr. Monroe. My name is Élodie Duval.)

His brow lifted slightly, intrigued.

“Élodie Duval… le nom me dit quelque chose.” (Élodie Duval… the name rings a bell.)

Leitana’s pulse raced.

She kept her voice light, airy, eccentric.

“Peut-être avez-vous entendu parler de mon défunt mari. Il était… discret.” (Perhaps you’ve heard of my late husband. He was… discreet.)

Elias smiled, warm, charming, just like before.

“Peut-être. Vous avez l’air… familière, pourtant.” (Perhaps. You seem… familiar, though.)

Leitana’s stomach twisted harder.

He was nice. He’d always been nice. But he was here, at this party. Among the sponsors. The men who bought models like merchandise.

Was he one of them?

The thought made her sad, deeply, achingly sad.

She forced herself to stay in character.

“Peut-être dans une autre vie,” she said lightly. (Perhaps in another life.)

Elias laughed.

“Puis-je vous inviter à danser, Madame Duval?” (May I invite you to dance, Madame Duval?)

Leitana glanced at Lafu.

Lafu gave a tiny nod….go.

Leitana turned back to him and offered her hand.

“Avec plaisir.” (With pleasure.)

Elias took it, his hand was warm and he gently led her to the dance floor.

The music shifted to a slow, elegant waltz.

Leitana stared at the couples moving around them, graceful, practiced, gliding like they were born right there.

She had no idea what she was doing.

She’d never waltzed in her life.

Back in Vanuatu, dancing meant drums, bare feet, hips swaying to rhythm not this structured, floating thing.

Elias noticed her hesitation.

He leaned close, voice low in French.

“Vous ne connaissez pas la valse?” (You don’t know the waltz?)

She shook her head, cheeks burning under the mask.

“Non… je… je viens d’un endroit où on danse différemment.” (No… I… I come from a place where we dance differently.)

He smiled kind and patient.

“Suivez mon lead.” (Follow my lead.)

He placed one hand on her waist, firm but respectful. The other took hers, lifting it gently.

She placed her free hand on his shoulder.

They began to move.

She stepped on his foot almost immediately.

“Oh—désolée!” she gasped. (Oh—sorry!)

Elias only laughed softly.

“Pas de problème. Encore.” (No problem. Again.)

He guided her, slow, patient. Counting softly under his breath in French.

“Un, deux, trois… un, deux, trois…”

She stumbled once more then again then slowly, slowly, she found the rhythm.

Her body relaxed into his lead.

They glided.

He smiled down at her.

“Vous apprenez vite.” (You learn fast.)

She blushed again. “Merci.”

They danced in silence for a moment, their bodies close, music wrapping around them.

Then he spoke again, quiet but curious.

“Dites-moi, Madame Duval… qu’est-ce qui vous amène ici ce soir?” (Tell me, Madame Duval… what brings you here tonight?)

Leitana’s heart pounded.

She stuck to the script, practiced and safe.

“Je cherche… quelque chose de spécial. Un jeune homme talentueux. Quelqu’un qui mérite d’être… mis en lumière.” (I’m looking for… something special. A talented young man. Someone who deserves to be… put in the spotlight.)

Elias’s brow lifted.

“Un modèle?” (A model?)

She nodded once, playing the regal, mysterious part.

“Peut-être.” (Maybe)

He studied her, his eyes warm, searching.

“Vous êtes différente des autres ici,” he said softly. (You’re different from the others here.)

She tilted her head. “Est-ce un compliment?” (Is that a compliment?)

“Absolument.” (Absolutely.)

They turned again, bodies swaying in perfect time now.

Then he asked—gently:

“Votre mari… il était comment?” (Your husband… what was he like?)

Leitana hesitated then gave the rehearsed answer.

“Reclus. Puissant. Discret. Il m’a laissé tout.” (Reclusive. Powerful. He left me everything.)

Elias nodded slowly.

“Je vois.” ( I see)

A pause.

Then—quietly:

“Je possède ma propre entreprise, moi aussi.” (I own my own company as well.)

Leitana’s breath caught.

She forced calm.

“Monroe Holdings?” she asked in French, feigning mild curiosity.

His eyes sharpened, surprised.

“Oui… comment le savez-vous?” (Yes… how did you know?)

She panicked for half a second then recovered smoothly.

“Vous avez dit votre nom est Monroe. J’ai supposé que c’était votre entreprise.” (You said your name is Monroe. I assumed it was your company.)

He laughed, soft, and delighted.

“Touché.” (Touché.)

She smiled behind her mask, small but careful.

Then—because it had been burning in her chest—she asked.

“Et vous… vous êtes ici en tant que sponsor?” (And you… are you here as a sponsor?)

Elias’s smile faded slightly.

“Oui. Mon entreprise sponsorise des agences comme celle-ci. Mais…” (Yes. My company sponsors agencies like this. But…)

He paused.

“Ce n’est pas pour ce que vous pensez.” (It’s not for what you think.)

Leitana tilted her head.

“Alors pourquoi êtes-vous ici?” (Then why are you here?)

He looked at her like he was searching for something.

“Ma sœur est morte récemment,” he said quietly. (My sister died recently.)

Leitana’s heart stopped.

She stared at him.

“Je suis désolée,” she whispered. (I’m so sorry.)

Elias gave a small, sad smile.

“Celeste. Celeste Rey. Vous la connaissez?” (Celeste. Celeste Rey. Do you know her?)

Leitana’s mouth went dry, her heart slammed against her chest.

She recovered—quickly.

“Um… oui. Pas beaucoup, mais… elle était grande.” (Um… yes. Not much, but… she was big.)

Elias sighed.

“Peu de gens savent ça. Je suis le mouton noir de la famille. On m’a chassé jeune. Mais j’ai fait mon nom. Elle était ma demi-sœur. On n’était pas proches… mais sa mort m’a secoué. Surtout nos parents. Ils l’adoraient.” (“Few people know that. I’m the black sheep of the family. I was cast out young. But I made my own name. She was my half-sister. We weren’t close… but her death shook me. Especially our parents. They adored her.”)

Leitana’s chest ached.

She felt guilty deeply guilty for ever thinking Elias was one of them.

She nodded slowly.

“Je suis vraiment désolée,” she repeated softly. (I’m really sorry.)

He gave her a small, sad smile.

“Merci.”

They danced in silence for a moment.

Then Elias spoke again.

“Il y a quelque chose en vous, Élodie… vous me semblez très familière.” (There is something about you, Élodie… you seem very familiar to me.)

Leitana’s pulse spiked.

She forced a light laugh.

“Peut-être dans une autre vie.” (Perhaps in another life.) She repeated like before.

His smile was warm, almost wistful.

“Peut-être.” (Perhaps)

The music slowed then stopped.

They came to a gentle halt—still on the dance floor, still holding each other.

People around them began to drift away.

Elias looked down at her.

“Puis-je vous offrir un verre?” (May I offer you a drink?)

Before she could answer, she felt it.

A hot gaze, burning from the other side of the room.

She glanced over.

Masks. Gowns. Tuxedos.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

But someone was watching her.

She shook it off—barely—and turned back to Elias with a small smile.

“Peut-être plus tard,” she said softly. (Perhaps later.)

He nodded, respectful.

“Alors… à plus tard, Madame Duval.” (So… see you later, Madame Duval.)

He bowed slightly.

Leitana curtsied, awkward but graceful.

Then she turned around looking for Lafu.

The crowd swallowed her.

And that hot gaze…

It followed.