Chapter 4 Smoke and Mirrors

The next morning arrived, and Elena woke to find her face plastered across half the internet.

She sat up in the hotel bed, heart already pounding, then the tablet Lucien's assistant had left on the nightstand blinked with a notification: #HartAndThorne was trending worldwide.

Out of curiosity, she tapped the screen, only to find "Power Couple or PR Stunt? Inside the Fast-Tracked Engagement of Lucien Thorne and Elena Hart" written all over the internet.

There were photos from the red carpet, showing her with a forced smile and Lucien's hand at her waist. Every angle was perfect, calculated, and controlled.

She scrolled further and saw headlines that blared questions disguised as compliments.

"From Obscurity to Empire: Who Is Elena Hart?"

"Legacy Heiress or Opportunist? A Look Into Her Family's Financial Troubles."

Out of frustration, she closed the tablet and set it face down, as if that would stop the noise. Then, a sharp knock broke her spiral. It was Camilla, Lucien's executive assistant, who swept into the suite with military precision. She carried a leather portfolio, which contained a garment bag, and a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Good morning, Miss Hart. We're on a tight schedule. You have a styling session in an hour and the Verve interview at eleven."

Elena blinked. "I didn't agree to an interview."

Camilla blinked back. "It was in the contract."

Of course it was.

"We've selected a pale blue Roland Mouret for you. Subtle, confident, accessible, and hair in a side part with no red lipstick as it reads aggressive on camera."

Hearing this, Elena stared. "You're giving me lip color rules?" But Camilla didn't flinch. "You're not just Elena anymore. You're an extension of a billion-dollar brand, so this makes your image non-negotiable."

Elena bit the inside of her cheek to keep from exploding, though she didn't scream or storm out.

She just nodded and added one more name to her list of people she didn't trust.

However, the interview took place in a sun-drenched rooftop suite overlooking Central Park. Elena sat beside Lucien on a velvet couch, smiling like a woman who wasn't quietly seething. The journalist from Verve, all perfectly arched brows and sharp questions, crossed her legs and leaned in.

"So, Elena, this has been quite the whirlwind," the woman voiced. "From a boutique designer to being the fiancée of New York's most elusive billionaire in just days. Some say it's love at first sight, while others... say it's legacy politics."

"I say it's timing," Lucien cut in smoothly. "The right people meeting at the right moment."

The journalist smiled, but her gaze stayed on Elena. "And what do you say, Elena? Was it fate?"

Elena returned the smile with one of her own. "Let's just say I don't believe in coincidence."

With that, they moved on to harmless questions, like how they met ("A private event"), what drew them to each other ("Mutual vision," Lucien answered), and whether the wedding would be public.

But then came the landmine.

"Your mother," the journalist said casually, flipping through notes. "She was a talented designer in her own right, wasn't she? Worked with several elite firms, including Thorne Interiors, before her accident."

Elena's smile froze as no one had ever publicly connected her mother's death to the Thornes.

Lucien shifted slightly beside her. "I believe the interview was meant to focus on the present."

"Of course," the journalist said lightly. "But lineage always echoes, doesn't it?"

She moved on before Elena could respond, but the damage had already been done. Her heart raced, her hands curled into fists hidden beneath the folds of her gown.

How did Verve know that?

However, as soon as the elevator doors closed after the interview, silence settled between them. Then Elena proceeded to talk without looking at Lucien. "You knew they'd ask about her."

"No, I didn't foresee they would ask such a question, since I didn't tell them anything," Lucien replied. "They dig. That's what they do."

"She knew about my mother's time with your family. That's not common knowledge. Not even I knew that detail." Elena continued as she was certain he said something to them, but Lucien didn't answer immediately.

And that was enough answer for Elena.

"You knew," she whispered.

"I suspected," he replied. "There were records I came across recently, though it was nothing definitive."

"Don't play semantics, Lucien. You let me walk into that interview blind."

"I protected you from worse," he said quietly. "That's the part you don't see."

She turned to him then, eyes blazing. "I don't need your protection. I need the truth."

He met her gaze without flinching. "Some truths are heavier than you realize."

Her jaw clenched. "And some lies are just dressed in silence."

With that, the elevator pinged open, and she walked out first, not waiting for him.

****

Back in the suite, the air was too still. Elena kicked off her heels, unzipped the gown, and padded barefoot toward her overnight bag. She needed a second to breathe. To think. To be.

She rifled through her things, looking for her sketch journal, which was a comfort she hadn't touched in weeks. Tucked between its pages was something that didn't belong.

A faded Polaroid.

Her mother, in her youthful days, was smiling in a soft pink dress, and beside her was a man with Thorne-gray eyes.

The breath caught in Elena's throat as her mother had never talked about the Thornes. Not once. And now, the press knew, and the past was clawing its way into the present.

She sat down slowly, the photo trembling in her hand, and grief swelled like a bruise.

That was when the door creaked open.

Lucien stood there, silent, as he didn't approach.

"I brought you tea," he said simply. "Didn't think you'd eat."

She looked up, expecting calculation. What she saw instead was... stillness, no mask or branding, just a man holding tea and standing in her silence like he wasn't afraid of it.

He set the cup on the table and didn't speak; neither did she thank him, but she didn't tell him to leave, either.

They sat in parallel silence, with him by the window and her by the bed, as a ghost of heat grew between them and too many words unspoken.

And for a single, fleeting moment, Elena felt something she hadn't since the masquerade:

Seen. But the walls were rebuilt quickly after being built by betrayal, so she reached for the photo, tucked it back into her journal, and sealed it shut.

Lucien watched her do it, but said nothing. Because whatever flicker had sparked, she wasn't ready to let it burn.

Not yet.