The gala was everything Amara expected.
And everything she despised.
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting soft golden light over silk gowns and tailored tuxedos. Laughter flowed easily, expensive and effortless. Servers glided between guests with trays of champagne, while soft music curled through the air like smoke.
Power lived here.
So did hypocrisy.
Amara stood near the entrance, fingers resting lightly around the stem of a champagne glass she had no intention of drinking. Her black dress was simple but elegant, clinging to her frame just enough to draw attention without looking desperate. Her hair was swept into a low bun, exposing the delicate line of her neck.
Every detail had been calculated.
Tonight, she was not Amara Vale.
Tonight, she was Mira Laurent — junior consultant for a European investment firm. Educated. Polished. Harmless.
The perfect lie.
Her gaze moved across the crowd, searching.
She had seen Adrian Voss in photographs, of course. Business magazines. Articles. Interviews. Always composed. Always controlled.
But photos had not prepared her for the real thing.
He stood near the center of the room, tall and unmistakable, dressed in a dark suit that looked like it had been designed solely for him. His presence didn't demand attention loudly — it commanded it silently. People gravitated toward him without him having to try.
He wasn't smiling.
Not really.
He listened more than he spoke. Observed more than he revealed.
And somehow… that unsettled her.
That wasn't the behavior of a spoiled heir drunk on privilege.
It was the behavior of someone… careful.
Amara's grip on her glass tightened.
It didn't matter.
She reminded herself of the hospital room. Of her father's still body. Of the way the Voss name had been spoken like a death sentence.
This man was still part of that legacy.
She had a role to play.
Taking a slow breath, she crossed the room.
Every step felt deliberate.
Measured.
As she approached, one of the executives beside Adrian laughed loudly at something she didn't hear. Amara didn't care. She stopped just within the edge of their circle.
And for the first time, Adrian Voss looked directly at her.
His gaze was sharp. Assessing. Dark eyes that didn't skim over her like most men's did — they lingered, as if he were trying to understand something he couldn't quite place.
A flicker of something crossed his face.
Recognition?
No. Impossible.
They had never met.
Had they?
Amara lifted her chin slightly, offering a polite, distant smile.
"Good evening," she said smoothly.
The executive beside Adrian turned. "Ah, you must be one of the Laurent consultants. Adrian, this is—"
"Mira Laurent," Adrian said before the man could finish.
His voice was lower than she expected. Calm. Controlled.
But there was something beneath it.
Something watchful.
She didn't show her surprise. "Mr. Voss."
A pause.
Not awkward.
Not empty.
Just… charged.
"You're not enjoying the champagne," he observed quietly, glancing at her untouched glass.
"Neither are you," she countered softly.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
"I prefer clarity," he said. "Alcohol interferes with that."
Interesting.
That was not the reckless, careless heir she had imagined.
"You find many things unclear tonight?" she asked.
His gaze held hers. "People."
Her heartbeat stuttered — only slightly.
"People lie," she said calmly. "Especially in rooms like this."
"Indeed."
Another pause.
This one deeper.
He studied her face as if committing it to memory, and for a dangerous second, Amara felt… seen.
Not Mira.
Her.
She shifted subtly, breaking the moment.
"Well," she said lightly, lifting her glass at last, "I suppose we're both surviving the evening."
He watched her take a small sip.
Then, quietly: "You don't belong here."
Her breath almost faltered.
She forced a smile. "Is that an accusation?"
"No." His voice was unreadable. "An observation."
Before she could respond, someone called his name.
"Mr. Voss! A word, please."
He glanced toward the interruption, then back at her.
"We'll continue this conversation," he said.
Not a question.
A statement.
Then he walked away.
Amara stood there for a moment longer, heart beating just a little harder than it should have.
She hadn't expected that.
Not the intensity.
Not the perception.
Not the way he looked at her like she was a puzzle instead of a pretty distraction.
Across the room, Adrian paused and glanced back.
Their eyes met again.
And for the first time since this plan began, something dangerous stirred in Amara's chest.
Not hatred.
Not satisfaction.
Something far worse.
Curiosity.