The words hang in the air between us.
My new wife.
His mother.
A woman with dementia whose grasp on reality is a flickering candle in the wind.
And she wants to talk to me.
The new, fake, catastrophe of a wife.
"What are we going to do?" I ask, my voice a whisper.
"We're going to do what we have to do," Theo says, his face grim. "We're going to lie to my sick mother."
He says it so matter-of-factly.
Another problem.
Another protocol.
"But for now," he continues, glancing at his watch. "We have a more immediate fire to put out."
"What immediate fire?"
"The Children's Foundation Gala," he says. "Tonight. My company is the title sponsor. Our attendance is not optional."
I stare at him. "Absolutely not. I can't. I have to prepare for the board inquiry. I have to… I'm on leave, Theo. I can't face a crowd of people."
"You have to," he says, his voice flat. "Us not showing up together, on the very day our marriage hits the news, is not an option. It would be a confirmation of scandal. It would tank the stock. It would validate every suspicion the medical board has about you."
He's right.
Of course, he's right.
He's weaponized logic against me.
"It's our first official public appearance," he says. "It's the first test of our… narrative. We can't fail it."
So my choice is to lie to his sick mother.
Or face a firing squad of L.A.'s elite.
My life has become a game of choosing the least-terrible-but-still-horrific option.
Three hours later, my bedroom looks like a fashion bomb went off.
Theo, in his infinite, infuriating wisdom, had a stylist from Neiman Marcus deliver an entire rack of dresses.
They are all beautiful.
They are all obscenely expensive.
And none of them are me.
They are costumes for a role I don't know how to play.
The Billionaire's Wife.
I finally settle on a dress made of dark green silk.
It's elegant.
Understated.
And it feels like a shroud.
Theo is waiting for me at the bottom of the glass staircase.
He's wearing a tailored tuxedo that probably cost more than my car.
He looks like James Bond's more ruthless younger brother.
He looks up as I descend.
His eyes rake over me, and for a second, his cool, business-like mask slips.
There's a flicker of something else.
Appreciation?
Surprise?
I can't read it. And I hate that I'm even trying.
"You look… acceptable," he says, his mask sliding back into place.
"High praise," I deadpan.
The ride to the Beverly Hilton is tense and silent.
He's scrolling through his phone, absorbing data points about the guests.
He's a general studying a battlefield map.
"Winston and Beverly Croft will be there," he says without looking up. "He's my biggest competitor. They will try to get to you. They will be charming. Do not trust them."
"Okay."
"Councilman Davies is a maybe. If you see him, be polite but vague. He's looking for donations."
"Okay."
"And whatever you do," he says, finally looking at me. "Stay away from the cast of that reality show about yacht brokers. They're vultures."
"Got it," I say. "Charm the vipers, avoid the vultures. A normal Tuesday night."
He almost smiles.
Almost.
The car pulls up to the red carpet.
The wall of noise and light hits us again.
But this time, it's different.
More organized.
Less of a chaotic scrum, more of a formal firing squad.
"Ready to play your part, Mrs. Raine?" Theo murmurs, his hand finding the small of my back.
His touch is electric.
A professional necessity that feels dangerously personal.
"Ready," I lie.
And we step out of the car, into the fire.
The ballroom is a glittering cavern of chandeliers and fake smiles.
The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and quiet desperation.
Every head turns as we enter.
I can feel their eyes on me.
Hundreds of them.
Judging.
Assessing.
Whispering.
That's her. The therapist.
I heard she was his patient.
He looks happy. She looks terrified.
I feel my smile start to tremble.
Theo's hand tightens on my back.
"Breathe," he murmurs, his voice for my ears only. "You're doing fine."
He guides me through the crowd like he's parting the Red Sea.
He's in his element.
He smiles.
He shakes hands.
He laughs at jokes that aren't funny.
He introduces me.
"This is my wife, Elara."
And I play my part.
I smile.
I nod.
I say things like, "So lovely to meet you."
I am a perfect puppet, and he is the master.
He's pulled away by a board member, leaving me stranded by the champagne tower.
I feel a panic start to rise.
And then I see them.
The vipers.
An older couple, dripping with diamonds and predatory charm, are making a beeline for me.
Winston and Beverly Croft.
"Dr. Voss," Winston says, his smile all teeth. "Or should we say Mrs. Raine? A pleasure. We were just saying how wonderfully… spontaneous Theo is."
"He certainly keeps life interesting," I reply, my own smile feeling brittle.
"Oh, I'm sure he does," Beverly says, her eyes sweeping over me in a way that makes me feel like an insect under a microscope. "We were so terribly fond of Sarah, you know."
My blood runs cold.
"She was a dear friend," Beverly continues, her voice oozing with fake sympathy. "A true artist. So full of light. Her paintings were just… transcendent."
She glances around the ballroom.
"I'm sure Theo's lovely house is still full of them."
It's a direct hit.
A perfectly aimed social missile.
She knows. She's been to the house. She knows it's a shrine.
And she's telling me that I don't belong there.
"You have very, very big shoes to fill," she says, her smile turning venomous.
I am speechless.
Frozen.
I am being compared to a dead woman by my fake husband's business rival.
And I am losing.
"Beverly. Winston."
Theo's voice cuts in, smooth as silk and cold as ice.
He's back at my side, his hand once again a firm, proprietary weight on my back.
"I see you've met my wife," he says, his smile not reaching his eyes. "I was just telling her to stay away from the vultures. Funny how you found her anyway."
The Crofts offer a pair of tight, angry smiles and retreat back into the crowd.
Theo turns to me.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he says.
"I think I just did," I whisper.
A waiter glides by with a tray of drinks.
Theo plucks one from the tray.
It's a glass of sparkling water with a lime wedge.
"Here," he says, pressing it into my hand. "You look like you need this."
I do.
My hand is trembling as I take a sip.
The cold bubbles are a relief.
"Let's find a quieter spot," he says, guiding me toward a small, unoccupied alcove near the terrace.
We stand in relative silence for a moment, the dull roar of the party a few feet away.
I take another long sip of my water.
And then I feel it.
A strange, subtle shift in my perception.
The edges of the room seem to soften.
The lights seem a little too bright.
A pleasant, floaty dizziness starts to creep in at the corners of my mind.
My heart starts to pound.
A frantic, sudden terror.
This feeling.
I know this feeling.
It's the same feeling from the bar in Vegas.
The same gauzy euphoria.
The same sense of a chemical curtain being drawn between me and reality.
I look down at the glass in my hand.
The innocent bubbles.
The lime wedge.
My eyes snap up to meet Theo's.
The terror must be plain on my face.
He frowns, a look of concern crossing his features.
"Elara? What's wrong?"
I can't speak.
All I can think is: Vegas.
The blackout.
The missing time.
The wedding.
It wasn't just a theory.
It wasn't paranoia.
It's real.
And it's happening again.
Right now.
Someone at this gala.
Someone in this glittering, smiling, venomous room.
Just spiked my drink.