Chapter 14 Chapter 14
Chapter 14
SELENE
At four o'clock, I began getting ready. The dress first—the midnight blue silk that the seamstress had altered perfectly. It fit like a dream, skimming over my body in all the right places, the still-flat plane of my stomach giving no hint of the secret growing there.
I did my own makeup, following the template the beautician had created. Foundation to smooth my complexion. Concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Eyeshadow in neutral tones that made my eyes look larger. Mascara, lipstick—a soft pink that was sophisticated without being too bold.
My hair was already styled from yesterday's appointment, swept up in an elegant chignon with a few soft tendrils framing my face. I added the diamond earrings Derek had given me for our first anniversary—they were beautiful, even if they represented an obligation rather than affection.
When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. The woman staring back looked polished, elegant, perfectly put together. Mrs. Derek Sterling in all her carefully constructed glory.
The only thing that gave me away was my eyes. Despite the makeup, despite the practiced smiles, they looked sad. Haunted. Like I was mourning something I'd never actually had.
I heard Derek moving around in his room—we'd started using separate spaces to get ready, another sign of the distance between us. At six-fifteen, there was a knock on my door.
"Selene? Are you ready?"
"Yes," I called back. "Just finishing up."
I took one last look in the mirror, squared my shoulders, and opened the door.
Derek stood in the hallway in his tuxedo, and my breath caught despite everything. He was devastatingly handsome—the black suit tailored perfectly to his frame, his dark hair styled just so, his strong jaw freshly shaved. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread about wealthy, powerful men.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. His eyes traveled over me, taking in the dress, the hair, the makeup. Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or appreciation. But it was gone before I could interpret it.
"You look... presentable," he said finally.
Presentable. After hours of preparation, hundreds of dollars in beauty treatments, careful attention to every detail—I looked presentable. The faint praise felt like a slap, but I'd expected nothing more.
"Thank you," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "You look nice too."
His phone buzzed, and he checked it immediately. "The car's here. We should go."
No compliment for me, no moment of connection before we left. Just straight to the schedule, the plan, the performance we were about to give.
I grabbed my clutch—a small Valentino bag that matched my dress—and followed Derek downstairs. The black card was inside, hidden in a zippered compartment. I'd brought it as a talisman, a reminder that this night wasn't forever, that escape was possible.
The town car waited in the driveway, the driver already holding the door open. Derek gestured for me to enter first, and I slid across the leather seat, careful not to wrinkle my dress. He climbed in after me, maintaining deliberate distance between us.
As the car pulled away from the house, heading toward the hotel where the gala was being held, I stared out the window at the passing streets.
Derek was on his phone, typing rapidly. I didn't ask who he was texting. I already knew.
"Remember," he said without looking up from his screen, "we need to appear united tonight. Grandmother is watching, and so is everyone else who matters."
"I remember," I said softly.
He nodded, satisfied, and went back to his phone. The rest of the drive passed in silence, broken only by the soft sounds of traffic and Derek's fingers tapping against his screen.
I placed my hand over my stomach, hidden beneath the folds of my dress, and made a silent promise to my baby: "After tonight, everything changes. I swear it."
The hotel came into view, its grand façade lit up against the darkening sky. Valets in formal uniforms waited at the entrance, photographers already positioned to capture arrivals. The Sterling Foundation Gala—the social event of the season—was about to begin.
And I was about to give the performance of my life.
The car pulled up to the hotel's grand entrance, and immediately I saw the flash of cameras. The photographers were already in position, ready to capture every arrival, every carefully orchestrated moment of the Sterling Foundation's most prestigious event of the year.
Derek pocketed his phone and turned to me, his expression shifting into something warmer—the public face he wore when people were watching. "Ready?" he asked, and anyone listening would have heard concern, affection even. But I knew better.
"Ready," I confirmed.
The driver opened the door, and Derek stepped out first, turning to offer me his hand. I took it, letting him help me from the car, and the cameras erupted in a frenzy of flashing lights.
"Mr. Sterling! Mrs. Sterling! Over here!"
"Look this way, please!"
"Beautiful couple! One more shot!"
Derek's hand settled at the small of my back, possessive and warm, as we posed for the photographers. I smiled—the practiced, perfect smile I'd rehearsed in the mirror—and leaned slightly into him, playing my role. To anyone watching, we looked like the ideal power couple: successful, attractive, completely in sync.
If only they knew the truth.