A Marriage of Convenience

The gentle spring breeze carried a hint of warm floral fragrance, blending with the lingering drizzle as it brushed against the ornate façade of the French-style building.

Tonight, at this exclusive high-jewelry auction, the dim lighting and lavish atmosphere set the stage for the evening's most anticipated highlight-a pair of 18th-century diamond earrings, once owned by a French princess, now donated by an Austrian noble family.

In a way, they were finally returning home.

Grace had come tonight primarily to witness these legendary earrings in person. She attended the event alone, but that never stopped people from approaching her.

"Oh, Grace! Your black gown is stunning! Is it from your family's new collection this season?"

A group of women quickly gathered around, eyes gleaming as they took in her appearance. Grace Bellavance had always been breathtaking-her amber eyes, sharp and captivating, held a hypnotic depth, while the sleek one-shoulder gown she wore effortlessly highlighted her elegant shoulders and delicate waistline.

It was impossible to tell whether the gown itself was stunning, or if it simply became so because Grace was the one wearing it.

After all, everyone knew that Bellavance wasn't just a legacy of luxury leather goods-it was a fashion empire, a symbol of prestige and power. From couture evening gowns to trendsetting designs, every season's collection dictated the industry's artistic and commercial direction.

Getting close to Grace wasn't just about friendship-it was about access. The right connections might mean securing an exclusive piece before anyone else, or even becoming the next it girl of the fashion world.

Grace stood at the center of their admiration, offering a practiced yet distant smile.

"No, it was custom-made," she replied lightly.

Among the elite gathered here, wealth was a given, and haute couture was hardly a novelty. But wearing something entirely unique, every single time-that was true luxury. That was power.

The women around her didn't bother hiding their admiration. As always, they chimed in with compliments, their voices laced with envy.

Grace remained indifferent. When the conversation naturally paused, she seized the moment to excuse herself to the restroom.

Finally, some quiet.

She blinked, her dry eyes stinging. The contact lenses were bothering her. Even though her nearsightedness wasn't severe-barely 200 degrees-she rarely wore glasses. But tonight, she had to endure the discomfort; she wanted a clear view of those earrings when they were finally presented on stage.

After closing her eyes briefly to rest them, she retouched her lipstick and slipped the tube back into her clutch as she stepped out of the restroom.

Lost in thought, she wasn't paying attention when-clink!-her lipstick slipped from her fingers and rolled across the polished marble floor.

With a sigh, she watched as the golden tube spun forward, its crisp metallic sound echoing through the quiet hallway, until it finally came to a stop at the feet of a man.

Polished, matte-leather Oxford shoes, impeccably clean. Above them, the perfectly tailored drape of suit trousers-the fabric clearly expensive, every seam precise.

Grace's gaze instinctively moved upward. But just as her eyes shifted, her contact lenses shifted uncomfortably with them, and with the dim corridor lighting, she could only make out the vague silhouette of a tall, commanding figure.

The man stood still, his posture straight, his presence exuding a calm yet undeniable authority. In the shadows, his features remained unreadable, his aura sharp and unyielding.

Grace shut her eyes briefly, dismissing the discomfort. Forget it. It doesn't matter who it is-I have no interest in making conversation.

By the time she reopened them, the man had already stepped closer, extending his palm toward her.

Her lipstick rested in his open hand.

A faint trace of cologne lingered in the air-cool, crisp bergamot, with a distinct, sophisticated edge.

More than that, she could feel his gaze-steady, unwavering, watching her from above.

Grace's lashes fluttered as she swiftly retrieved the lipstick from his palm. "Thank you," she murmured, turning away before their eyes could meet.

Polite, but completely uninterested. She had no desire for unnecessary entanglements.

What she didn't see was that, as she walked away, the man turned to watch her retreating figure, his expression unreadable.

There was something in his gaze-a flicker of recognition, or perhaps curiosity-brief, fleeting, but undeniable.

And just like that, as she quickened her pace and her gown swept behind her, the moment dissolved into the night.