Chapter 5

Elara's Pov

-Flashback-

-Flashback-

This was a bad idea. I should have thought twice before jumping on the bandwagon. I can't believe I have turned into a stalker. What had my life come to? This morning, when I got up to leave for work, I thought it was going to be a normal day. But lately, I had come to the realization that almost nothing in my life was normal anymore. Not since I had met Gabriel Anderson.

The moment I reached the office, being the PA of my boss, I was in his office sharp at 8, narrating to the 40-year-old man his schedule for the day that I had spent long hours to prepare and align with the mess of his life. But he simply told me to rearrange everything because he had a freaking charity gaal to attend to. A high-class, vip, business elite invasion only- charity gala. I wanted to smack him in the head, but then a bell rang in my hand.

An Elite business charity Gala. Meaning all top-class businessmen were invited. Which meant Gabriel had to show up. Right? What are the chances he would? But more importantly, what were the chances that I would even be allowed to roam near the venue with my freaking hand-me-down clothes from my sister that screamed, RECYCLED, POOR, and WORN TOO MANY TIMES. Fuck, there was no way I could enter the venue. It was way out of my league. But I couldn't just give up like that. So I freaking risked it all. The moment I spotted the invitation lying on my boss's desk, I knew I had to steal it, get a dupe made, and then place it back exactly where I had picked it.

I had to play this smart.

"Mr. Whitaker, I just got an email from the Singapore office—apparently, they're having some kind of mini crisis with the quarterly numbers. You might want to look into it ASAP."

He frowned and reached for his glasses, already pulling up his laptop. "Damn it. Those idiots can't file a report without lighting something on fire."

"Take your time," I said sweetly, backing away as he cursed under his breath.

As soon as his eyes were on the screen, I swooped in. The invitation was lying right there on the corner of his desk, like fate had placed it for me. Gold-trimmed, thick cardstock, with that ridiculous shimmer like the damn thing was dipped in liquid privilege. My fingers closed around it so smoothly, so confidently, that for a moment I believed I belonged to this world.

"I leave you to it then," I added, already halfway out the door.

I didn't wait for an answer. I was down the elevator in seconds and on the street with me hiding my face like I was about to rob a damn bank. I should've waited until my break.

The little print shop across the block looked half-dead, but the guy behind the counter perked up when he saw me walk in, clutching the invitation like it was some ancient scroll.

"Can you copy this?" I asked, placing it carefully on the counter.

He raised a brow. "Nice invite. That's some expensive paper. What's it for? Where are you trying to break into?"

"Don't worry about it."

He shrugged and slid it onto the scanner. He did his magic, but the moment the copy came out, he squinted.

"Uh. This has a wax seal stamp. It's embossed. My machine can't replicate that."

I froze.

Of course it had a damn stamp.

I stared at the original, then at the near-perfect fake. It was almost indistinguishable… until you looked closely. The seal was there, yes — but it wasn't raised. It was printed on, just part of the image.

"Can you make it look close?" I asked, chewing on my lip.

He shrugged. "This is as close as it gets unless you want to start forging wax stamps. Not exactly legal."

"Just… just give it to me."

He handed it over, and I studied the copy.

To the untrained eye, it looked identical. But to someone who knew what they were looking for? The illusion would fall apart fast.

Still… it was good enough.

It had to be.

I slipped into the building with my heart hammering in my throat. I took the elevator up, forcing myself to breathe. Mr. Whitaker's door was open when I reached the top floor. He was still at his desk, eyes glued to his laptop, muttering profanities under his breath.

Perfect.

I stepped inside casually. "Did the Singapore team finally get their act together?"

He scoffed without looking up. "No. Those idiots couldn't file a basic correction if their jobs depended on it."

His eyes lifted to mine just then, sharp and annoyed. I gave a sympathetic nod and took a few steps closer.

And then the idea hit me.

"Oh—ops!" I said suddenly, bending down quickly as if picking something off the floor. My fingers slipped into my bag. I retrieved the original invitation, keeping my movement swift and fluid, and rose again with the envelope in hand.

"This must've fallen earlier," I said, placing it gently on his desk.

Whitaker's eyes dropped to the invitation. He studied it. Then he looked at me.

For one solid second, I thought I was screwed.

But then he gave a distracted grunt and went back to clicking through emails. "Figures."

I turned on my heel, relief already flooding me, but his voice caught me just as I reached the doorway.

"Wait," shit. Here goes my job.

"That's all you came in here for?"

My spine stiffened. Slowly, I turned, forcing a casual smile onto my lips.

"Oh-no, actually. I meant to ask something else, but you seemed a bit busy—"

"Shoot," he cut in, waving one hand without looking up.

Think. Fast.

"When should I schedule your meeting with the Worthings?" I blurted.

"Next week sometime. They're not a priority."

I nodded. "On it."

Then I didn't wait for another word — practically sprinted out of his office and down the hallway, the door swinging shut behind me.

The Veridian Hotel looked like something out of a royal dream — all marble steps, golden light, and velvet ropes. Everything about it screamed You don't belong here.

But I was already here. No turning back.

Because, ladies, if you want a rich man to fall for you, then you need to go to the rich places.

I stood just outside the crowd, heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest. People around me stepped out of expensive cars, dressed in custom gowns and designer suits. A line had formed at the front gates where two guards stood stiffly, checking invitations one by one.

I glanced down at myself.

The dress clung to my body like sin — deep black satin, cut low in the front, hugging every curve like it was meant to. I'd spent more on this rental than I had on groceries in the last two weeks. But I looked the part, and tonight, that's all that mattered.

I touched the mask on my face and adjusted it slightly. Feathers brushed my temple.

My palms were sweating. I kept replaying my plan in my head, over and over, as if that could stop it from going sideways.

Finally, I reached the front.

"Invitation?" the guard asked, eyes impassive.

I offered a slow, sweet smile and reached into my bag. Just before handing it over, I subtly tugged the neckline of my dress down a little farther. Just a sliver. Just enough.

I handed him the card and leaned in ever so slightly. "A face like that shouldn't be stuck guarding venues," I murmured, voice honeyed. "It belongs on runways."

That got him. His eyes flicked up to meet mine — and then down, exactly where I wanted them. They lingered just long enough.

I pulled out a business card — one I found in the back of my desk drawer weeks ago, from some fake photography gig I'd once tried to pretend I had for a college project. No idea why I even kept it.

But it came in handy now.

I slipped it into his hand with a smile. "Here. Call me if you're interested in my offer."

He blinked. Looked at the card. Then grinned like I'd just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

"Let the lady through."

Holy. Shit.

I held my breath until I passed the threshold and the doors shut behind me.

I was in.

Now, all I had to do… was find him.