Lucien Vale stood at the edge of it all, black suit flawless. His pale eyes skimmed across the sea of faces. He hated these nights. But he endured them with the grace of someone used to enduring much worse. And then—
She appeared. Evelyn Leclair.
She stepped onto the red carpet like she had been born beneath chandeliers. A vision in ivory and champagne silk, her gown cascading in shimmering waves, embroidered in baroque detail. Her chestnut hair fell in perfect curls. Her presence was like a violin held at the edge of a scream: beautiful, tense, unforgettable. His fiercest rival. The angel-faced songstress. Critics adored her, fans worshipped her — and Lucien? He never spoke her name aloud, not once in public. But his eyes watched her now, sharp and quiet. She posed for the cameras with measured poise. But Lucien noticed what the cameras didn’t catch.

Her manager stood too close. He was a man Lucien had seen before — always grinning, always glued to Evelyn's side like a shadow. Tonight, he wasn’t grinning. He leaned into her space, fingers brushing too familiarly at her waist under the guise of adjusting the gown. When she tried to step forward, his hand didn’t move fast enough. It lingered. Possessive. Controlling. Her expression didn’t waver. That was what made Lucien's chest twist — not the rivalry. But the way she endured. Like she’d practiced this too. Her manager whispered something in her ear, and she stiffened almost imperceptibly, like a dancer correcting her posture mid-performance. And still, she posed. Still, she gave the cameras what they wanted. Lucien looked away just long enough to school his expression, then turned back. This time, he didn’t look at Evelyn as a rival. He looked at her as someone who might need him. And that was dangerous.