By the time Miles stepped out of the black luxury sedan in front of the Grand Meridian Hall, Brielle was already drawing attention, her silver gown sculpted to perfection, her smile polished through years of modeling contracts and calculated ambition.
She leaned close to him as cameras flashed, whispering with amusement, “Relax, Miles, tonight belongs to us.”
Reporters shouted questions, and one voice cut clearly through the noise, asking where his wife was.
Miles smiled effortlessly and replied, “Lydia prefers a quieter life. This world has never interested her.”
Inside the hall, champagne flowed, orchestral music softened conversations, and Brielle moved with practiced grace, laughing at the right moments, touching Miles’s arm whenever a camera lens hovered nearby.
An investor approached, lowering his voice. “I hear Meridian Crest Holdings is sending their chair tonight.”
Miles straightened. “In person?”
“That is the rumor,” the man replied. “No one knows who she is.”
Brielle squeezed Miles’s hand and murmured, “Imagine the headlines if she notices you.”