Even as they moved deeper into the gala, she couldn't shake the woman's warning. The sharks don't take kindly to new blood. Was that jealousy talking, or something darker?

The ballroom was crowded now, laughter and music swelling as more guests arrived. Lucas was immediately pulled into conversations. Board members, investors, old family friends-names Mia couldn't keep track of, faces she didn't recognize.

She stayed close by his side, nodding, smiling when necessary, but rarely spoken to. Each time she was introduced, it was like a test. They studied her, searching for flaws, for cracks. Some were polite. Others were openly amused.

But Lucas didn't leave her.

His hand stayed on her back or waist, and when one man-a balding mogul with an obvious leer-made a too-personal comment about her dress, Lucas's eyes hardened. The man quickly excused himself.

"She's lovely," a woman in pearls said to Lucas, not bothering to look at Mia. "But temporary, I assume?"

Mia's throat tightened. Lucas's expression didn't change, but his tone dropped in temperature.

"She's not furniture, Deborah."

Mia's stomach flipped.

Was that... a defense?

A waiter appeared with canapés, but Mia waved them off. Her appetite was gone. All she could think about was how easily everyone dismissed her. As if she were invisible. Replaceable.

"You're doing fine," Lucas said, voice low beside her ear. "Ignore them."

"Hard to do when I'm being measured like I'm for sale," she replied, eyes on a woman in a backless sapphire gown.

He turned slightly toward her. "They're testing you. It's what they do."

"I'm not a test," Mia muttered. "I'm a person."

Lucas's gaze flicked to her, and for the first time that night, something shifted in his eyes-respect, maybe. Surprise.

"I know," he said quietly.

And then came the next ambush.

Sophie was back, this time with two men flanking her like guards. One of them was young and sly-looking, with slicked hair and an expensive watch. The other looked older, tougher-scar on his temple, stiff shoulders.

"Mia, darling," Sophie cooed. "Have you met Lawrence Whitmore?"

Mia froze. The Lawrence Whitmore. Host of the gala. Billionaire industrialist. One of the most powerful men in Lucas's world.

She dipped her head slightly. "It's a pleasure."

Lawrence studied her with the same detached interest one might give an auction item. "So you're the girl he married in secret."

Mia didn't know what to say. Lucas didn't help her.

"I'm surprised, Lucas," Lawrence went on. "You always had a taste for control. Impulse isn't like you."

Lucas's jaw flexed. "It wasn't impulse."

"No? Well, we all do strange things when grieving," Lawrence said with a thin smile. "You're still grieving, aren't you?"

Mia blinked.

Grieving?

Lucas's fingers tensed at her waist, but he didn't answer. Instead, he gave Lawrence a cool nod and said, "Enjoy your evening, Whitmore."

Then he guided Mia away.

Grieving?

The word rang in her head like a bell long after they'd slipped into a quieter corner near the balcony. Mia turned to him, the questions burning.

"Lucas... what did he mean? Grieving?"

Lucas glanced out over the garden. The moonlight cut his features into sharp angles.

"Nothing important."

"That's a lie."

His eyes met hers. Cold. Guarded. But not cruel.

"It's not relevant to you."

She stepped back. "How can you say that? I'm your wife, remember? Legally tied to you, living in your home, wearing your ring-and you expect me not to ask questions?"

Lucas exhaled. "Drop it, Mia."

"No. I won't."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, Lucas said, "I had a fiancée. Before Sophie. Before everything. She died."

Mia's breath caught.

"I'm sorry," she said, softly.

Lucas didn't respond.

He looked away, shoulders rigid. "It was a long time ago. That's all."

Mia wanted to ask more, but something about the way he shut down made it clear-this wasn't a wound easily poked.

Still, the questions stacked inside her like bricks.

Why did everyone treat her like she was temporary? Why had he married her so suddenly, so secretly? And why did a man like Lawrence Whitmore speak to him like a disappointed father?

Something was wrong. She could feel it.

They left the ballroom after midnight. Mia was exhausted-mentally and physically. Her heels were killing her. Her smile felt plastered on with glue.

Back in the limo, Lucas poured them both a drink from the chilled bar. He handed her a glass and raised his own slightly.

"To surviving," he said.

She gave a tired smile. "Barely."

They clinked glasses. The first sip burned her throat but warmed her chest. Silence settled over them again, but it didn't feel hostile this time. Just... thoughtful.

"Thank you," Mia said finally. "For staying close tonight."

Lucas looked at her. "It's part of the deal."

"I know. But still-thank you."

He studied her face. "You did well, Mia. Better than I expected."

She flushed at the unexpected praise. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should."

They didn't speak again until the limo pulled into the driveway of the estate. Mia slipped off her shoes the moment they were inside.

Lucas paused at the base of the stairs. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow won't be quiet."

"What happens tomorrow?"

He gave her a faint smile. "The sharks smelled blood tonight. They'll come circling soon."

Then he disappeared into his wing of the house.

Mia stood barefoot on the marble floor, heart thudding. She looked down at the emerald dress that had felt like armor earlier that evening.

Now it just felt heavy.

Chapter 8 Enemies in Silk

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