Chapter 8 Mask at the table
Elara’s POV
I wake to the sound of footsteps and soft voices. For a second, I think I’m dreaming, then my eyes open, and my breath catches.
The room I slept—Damien’s room—is no longer empty. It has been transformed into a full blown boutique. Racks of gowns shimmer all around me in silk and satin, and there are shoes in neat rows that gleam under the morning light. Not only that. Boxes of jewelry that sparkle like they’ve been stolen from a vault are neatly stacked and arranged. The room smells heavily of rich perfume and expensive fabrics which are almost dizzying to me.
A small army of women walks about, all people that are paid to dress me. Fitters, hairdressers, manicurists, all of them faces I don’t recognize but who clearly recognize me. The supposed wife of Damien Cade.
One of them, a maid with sharp cheekbones and calm eyes, steps forward. “Good morning, Mrs. Cade. The boss has instructed that you should spend the day preparing for a dinner with his family. The dinner begins at eight and everything you will need has been arranged.”
Her tone is polite, neutral. Not warm or cold. Just the voice of someone following orders.
I sit up slowly, the sheets falling from my shoulders. “Are you serious?”
She bows her head slightly. “Yes ma'am. Shall we begin?”
I nod, though my throat tightens with an invisible knot.
The day begins and then blurs into a cycle of indulgence and exhaustion.
The first step is the dress fittings—hands tugging fabric around my waist, needles pinning hems while I stand like a mannequin. Then the spa treatment—my skin scrubbed, polished, and massaged until it tingles. My nails are painted into a bright red color that catches the light, my hair brushed and styled again and again until the strands fall like silk over my shoulders. Perfume mist curls around me, heavy and sweet.
I look calm as I let them work, but inside, I’m a storm. Each treatment, each layer of polish, is another reminder of the cage I’ve stepped into. Every touch of a stranger’s hands on my skin feels like a part of me is being erased and they’re scrubbing off the pieces of me that don’t fit Damien’s world.
By the time the wall clock chimes seven-thirty, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror.
She’s dazzling, dangerous. Almost a total stranger in my skin.
The door opens and Damien steps in, putting on a midnight black suit and an air of control, his presence immediately filling the space like gravity. His eyes flicked from my head to my toes, slow and deliberate, and for once his expression shifts—only slightly, but enough to steal the breath from my throat.
“You clean up well,” he says at last.
The words should be a compliment, but his tone is so cold, and businesslike, that it feels more like an evaluation than praise.
I lift my chin. “You are making it sound like an inspection.”
“It is.” He says. His gaze lingers on me for a second longer, unreadable, then he turns, offering his arm. “Let’s not keep my family waiting.”
I take his arm, skin prickling where we touch. I feel like I'm stepping onto a stage I didn’t audition for.
In the Cade family’s mansion, the dining hall is a cathedral of marble and glass. The chandelier overhead glitters like falling stars, the table long enough to host kings. The walls are lined with paintings of stern-faced ancestors whose eyes seem to follow me as I walk and other expensive paintings that must have cost more than my college fee all together.
At the head of the table Damien’s father—stone-faced, carved from something harder than flesh. His stare is as cold as ice, colder than any human has a right to be.
Beside him, his mother looks elegant and sharp. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion that cuts straight to my bones. Even the way she folds her napkin, her eyes fixed on me feels like a calculated move.
And then there’s the younger sister. Young, beautiful, and enigmatic. She smiles at me like a cat with a secret, chin resting on her hand as though she’s been waiting for this moment all along.
Damien guides me to a chair and pulls it out for me to sit. “Mother. Father. Clara. This is Elara. My wife.”
The word makes the room tilt.
His father nods once. His mother’s lips tighten, ready to dismiss me with a glance. But I smile, soft and sweet, pouring honey into my voice.
“It’s such an honor to meet you all. Damien has told me so much.”
A lie. He hasn’t told me one damn thing. But I let my tone drip with sincerity.
His sister laughs lightly. “Has he? That’s rare. Besides, your necklace is beautiful. That white gold suits you.”
“Thank you.” I reply sincerely even though I feel like I shouldn't.
The conversation unfolds like a delicate duel. His mother tests me with questions about where I grew up, what I value, how I handle pressure and I answer each with careful charm, weaving truth and lies until the suspicion in her eyes softens. I lean forward at the right times, laugh softly at Clara’s teasing remarks, slip compliments into my responses when it is needed.
By dessert, Damien's mother actually smiles at me. “She’s… different,” she admits, reluctant but genuine. “I approve.”
His father says nothing, but his silence feels less like rejection than calculation. His gaze flicks between Damien and me, as if weighing some hidden scale.
I exhale, relief washing through me. For tonight, at least, I’ve won.
I excuse myself as the plates are cleared. “I need the restroom,” I murmur, rising with practiced grace and into the hallway.
The hallway outside is quiet, shadows stretching long. I move toward the powder room—then freeze.
Voices drift from a side corridor, low and urgent.
Damien. And his father.
“You must make sure she never learns the truth about her father,” his father says, voice flat and absolute. “The only reason I agreed to this marriage is to keep her in your world and under your control. She must never get to expose us. Do you understand?”
My breath catches, the words slamming into me like a fist.
The truth about my father.
Damien reply’s steady and controlled. “I understand.”
The floor seems to tilt under me. My father—the man whose name I’ve been told to bury, whose memory I’ve clung to in silence. Why must the Case's role in his death be kept a secret? What do I not know yet?
I press my back into the wall, pulse roaring, trying to piece it together. My fingers dig into the seams of my dress as if I can anchor myself with the fabric.
I’m so lost in the weight of their words that I don’t hear the footsteps until they’re right behind me.
“It’s time to leave.”
I spin to see Adrian, silent as a shadow, his expression is unreadable. For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. Does he know I’ve been listening? Does he suspect?
But he simply gestures toward the hall, calm and precise. “Come. The car’s waiting.”
I force a smile, swallowing the panic clawing at my throat. “Of course.”
As I walk beside him, my skin prickles. Adrian is Damien’s right hand. If he guessed what I’ve overheard, my game would end before it began.
So I keep my face calm, and my steps steady while inside, my vow burns hotter than ever.
I will uncover the truth about my father.
No matter what it cost.