Chapter 218

Serena's POV

I stood outside the Thorne Foundation charity gala. The scene was pure elite excess - paparazzi competing for angles, socialites' Instagram followers pressing against the barriers, and a small army of earpiece-wearing event staff coordinating with PD.

Inside the shelter of the Rolls-Royce, parked at the red carpet's end, I sat beside Atticus Thorne. After we'd left Riverside Medical Center, he'd accompanied me to Bergdorf's to select this light-green gown.

"Shall we?" Atticus asked with that characteristic reserve. He had that old money quality about him - the kind of unflappable composure you can't fake, no matter how many billions you make in tech or hedge funds.

My lips pressed together, conflict stirring. Lucas had been clear - he didn't want me anywhere near tonight's event. Yet here I was. I couldn't predict his reaction, and I shouldn't care, but...

"Yes," I met Atticus's gaze.

"Something wrong?" I noticed his lingering look.

He caught himself, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. With a subtle nod to his private security detail, the door on his side opened first.

I watched as Atticus emerged into a strobe light storm of cameras, his frame commanding immediate attention. He circled the car with that distinctive grace, opening my door with practiced ease.

I placed my hand in his, aware that every society columnist and influencer had stopped breathing.

As I stepped out, I heard the collective gasp. Recognition rippled through the crowd. Taking Atticus's arm, I began our walk past the plaza's iconic facade, feeling the weight of crowd's attention. Each step was measured, practiced.

Walking the red carpet with him feels like navigating a minefield. While he maintains his signature subtle smile. I can't help but notice how the cameras seem to gravitate toward us.

He leans close, his breath warm against my ear as he whispers, "You've given me a whole new appreciation for what it means to walk a red carpet. I imagine Lucas Harrington must be contemplating my murder right about now."

I maintain my practiced smile for the cameras, but my voice carries an edge of ice. "Just keep walking."

His smile widens at my response - I can see it in my peripheral vision, and I know the photographers are catching every nuance of our interaction.

The press surges forward with their questions, like sharks scenting blood in the water.

"Mr. Thorne, what brings you and Miss Sinclair here together? Is there something special between you two?"

"Mr. Thorne, we've heard your grandfather is in poor health. Will he be attending tonight's gala?"

"Mr. Thorne, there are rumors about a major announcement from the Thorne family at tonight's charity event. Care to give us a preview?"

They turn their attention to me. "Miss Sinclair, what's your relationship with Mr. Thorne? Are you here as his date or as a special guest of the Thorne family?"

"Miss Sinclair, is that gown your own design or haute couture?"

"Miss Sinclair, StarRiver's luxury fashion line has been dominating the domestic market. Any plans for international expansion? Can you share your upcoming marketing strategy?"

Atticus takes the lead, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Miss Sinclair and I are here as business partners - nothing more."

When pressed about our joint venture in StarRiver's luxury line, he replies with calculated ambiguity. "Half true."

The reporters bite. "Half?"

"The partnership is real," he clarifies, "but the 'joint' part isn't. I'm merely an investor. All brand design, marketing, strategy, and sales are solely Miss Sinclair's domain."

I feel a complex mix of emotions as he publicly acknowledges my business acumen in front of the press. It's a power move, but I'm not sure for whose benefit.

When asked if he trusts me, he quips, "Trust? I'm mostly afraid I'd mess things up if I tried to get involved." The reporters laugh, and I can feel the tension ease slightly.

"Mr. Thorne has already clarified our business relationship, so I won't belabor that point. As for my gown, it's not one of my designs. Due to a small mishap during my flight to Portland, my original dress didn't arrive. Mr. Thorne arranged this Givenchy haute couture as a backup." I chimed in.

As we're about to make our exit, my heel catches - a genuine stumble. Atticus steadies me with practiced grace, his hand at my elbow.

That's when I see them - Lucas escorting Rachel Thorne onto the red carpet. My pulse quickens, a painful flutter in my chest. And I realize, with a sinking heart, that we're not just apart; we're adversaries now. The sadness is overwhelming, a heavy weight pressing down on me. But I lift my chin, maintaining my composed exterior.