Evening light streamed through the window, painting the walls of the room in gold. The second floor of Residenza Cello. Elena's room. She was still caught up in what had happened last night—clutching Alexander's jacket to her chest. (It was part of the act. All of it was.) No matter how many times she told herself that, the lingering scent of rosemary and bergamot stubbornly refused to leave her chest. A knock at the door. "Miss Elena, may I come in?" It was Sophia. The silver-haired maid opened the door, her arms cradling something large. A deep crimson dress. "[gentle]This is from Master Alexander. He wishes you to wear it to tonight's soirée," The silk caught the evening light, glowing softly. The design left the shoulders and back dramatically bare. The moment Elena saw it, she instinctively stepped back. "Th-this... I'm supposed to wear this?" "[gentle]It will suit you beautifully," Sophia answered with a smile—a genuine one. Warm, like a mother's. But Elena's gaze couldn't leave the dress. (My entire back will be exposed. I've never worn anything like this in my life.) With Sophia's help, Elena slipped into the dress. The cool silk touched her skin. The sensation of her back exposed to the air. She felt so embarrassed her body seemed to freeze. Sophia deftly gathered Elena's black hair into an updo, leaving just one strand to fall softly in front of her ear. "Now, please look in the mirror," Elena turned to face it hesitantly. ...Who is this person? That was her first thought. The deep crimson fabric fell along the lines of her body. The faint marks on her left wrist were hidden by the dress's sleeve. Large brown eyes blinked slowly in a face that looked like someone else's. (Vermont... Elena Vermont. This is me.) She had to confirm it, or she might lose track of who she was. Exactly 7 p.m. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. It was Alexander. Black tuxedo. Perfectly tailored. Jet-black hair, cold black eyes. Standing beneath the hallway lights, he possessed the same presence as when Elena first met him on the 42nd floor—as if he'd stepped out of a painting. He looked at Elena. For just a moment, his eyes narrowed. As if confirming something. And then— "[serious]...It suits you," Brief words. But Elena could sense the small pause he'd taken before choosing them. (What should I do? My face is burning.) "[gentle]Thank you very much," She answered politely. Her voice was steady. She could manage the act. But inside, she was anything but calm. Alexander took Elena's hand. His hand was bare, without gloves. Warm. Something in her chest pulsed strongly. "Let's go," The private car drove through the night streets of Florentina. Crossing the canal, passing through the cobblestone old town, heading toward Teatro Grande Florentina. The opera house, built in 1847, glowed like a jewelry box when night fell, its entire facade wrapped in light. Just before the car stopped, Alexander spoke quietly. "[serious]Put on a smile. This is your first trial," The moment the door opened, white light flooded in all at once. Flashes. Photographers with cameras lined both sides of the red carpet. Alexander's hand settled on Elena's waist. Low, but supporting her firmly. "Master Alexander—who is this lovely lady?" One reporter called out. Alexander turned toward the cameras, his lips curving up slightly. The social face he rarely showed. "[serious]My fiancée. Elena Vermont," Elena smiled. Just the corners of her mouth lifted, her eyes didn't follow—the smile Alexander had taught her yesterday. Flashes erupted all at once. (It's fine. This is an act. I'm good at acting.) Inside the lobby, another world opened up. Beneath the chandelier lights, people in tuxedos and evening gowns chatted. The mingled scent of perfume made the air sweet and heavy. Financiers approached one after another. Each time Alexander introduced her lightly, Elena extended her hand as she'd been taught. Made eye contact, waited three seconds, answered softly. An elderly businessman with a white beard laughed. "Alexander, you've found a wonderful companion. She has remarkable eyes." "[serious]Thank you. She is special," Elena's chest pulsed strongly again. (Special, is it?) She knew it was an act. But the resonance of those words lingered in her chest in an odd shape. Whether it was his true feeling or an act, what would it matter even if she asked—she told herself this while maintaining her perfect smile. The opening bell rang. The Valentino family's private box was in the best location on the second floor, facing the stage directly. Marco was already standing there. Steel-gray eyes captured Elena. Just one glance. That alone was enough—a silent pressure. "[cold]Sit beside your master. Keep your back straight," A command. No honorifics. Elena steadied her breathing slightly and sat as instructed. Alexander sat beside her. The distance between them was close. Nearly close enough for the armrests to touch. The curtain rose on the stage. Verdi's *La Traviata*—"The Woman Who Strayed from the Path," a tragic love story. Violetta, a courtesan living in high society, encounters pure love and loses it. The orchestra's sound filled the dark theater. Elena watched the stage, but felt unsettled. Perhaps because this seat was dark. All the lighting was directed at the stage. She could barely see Alexander's profile. Yet she knew he was there—she could feel it in the air. The first act progressed. Violetta sang. The scene where a woman who had lived pretending not to know love finally felt genuine emotion for the first time. (Somehow, this feels like me right now... No, it's completely different.) Elena quickly pushed that thought to the back of her mind. That was when it happened. Alexander's hand touched Elena's wrist. It was accidental. Their hands, resting on the armrest in the darkness of the stage, overlapped. That was all. But. Elena's lungs stopped moving for a moment. Heat gathered in her face. His fingertips rested on her wrist, above the faint marks beneath the dress's sleeve. Warm. Different from the warmth of his jacket she'd felt on the terrace last night. More direct. The living body heat of another human being. (Don't move. Don't notice.) Elena couldn't move, her eyes still on the stage. Alexander's gaze remained on the stage too. He didn't notice—or so it seemed. But. His fingertips were trembling. Elena felt it. Trembling. Small, but unmistakable. She couldn't determine what it meant. (Not an act?) On stage, Violetta sang, "Love, my very life." Elena found it ironic. The moment the intermission lights came up, Alexander's hand naturally withdrew. As if nothing had happened. Elena cast her gaze out the window. The night of Florentina spread before her. The heat in her face was from the lights returning—she wanted to believe that. She felt a gaze on her back. Marco. Standing against the wall, watching them both. His expression was unreadable. Was it cold, or was he restraining something? Only—there was something different in those gray eyes, something other than his usual sharp vigilance. The second act began. Elena fixed her gaze on the stage. The memory of his body heat still lingered on her wrist. The performance ended. Applause shook the theater during curtain call. The two of them rose and, accompanied by Marco, headed toward the private car. The car was silent. The night scenery of Florentina flowed past the windows. Cobblestone alleys, reflections on the canal, lights at the harbor. Elena kept her eyes fixed only on the world outside. She didn't know what to say. Didn't know what she should say. Alexander was silent too. A heavy silence lay between them. "[serious]...You were perfect today," A quiet voice. Eyes forward, pitched slightly lower. Elena turned from the window to face ahead. "[gentle]Thank you very much," Just those words. But her mind was spinning with something entirely different. (When your fingertips touched me, my lungs stopped. What does that mean? Why were your fingers trembling?) She couldn't ask. What would asking change? This was a contract. The car passed through the gates of Residenza Cello. It stopped in front of the entrance. They got out. Night wind touched her skin. Cold air slipped in from the back of the crimson dress. At the entrance, Alexander stopped. "[gentle]Good night," With those words, his hand touched her cheek. Touched—or rather, grazed it. Less than a second. Just a moment. But his fingertips definitely warmed her cheek. Elena froze. Her face burned. A faint smile played at Alexander's lips. What kind of smile it was—satisfaction, a smile of confirmation, or something else—Elena couldn't tell. He disappeared into the mansion. Elena stood alone at the entrance. Back in her room, she reached for the dress's zipper. In the mirror, the woman who had looked like a stranger until moments ago stared back. She placed her hand on her cheek. Still warm. (This is an act.) She moved only her lips, not speaking aloud. But. His fingertips had trembled. There was no need to go that far for an act. When she began to consider what that might mean, something in her chest slowly came undone—a frightening sensation. Outside the window, the night scenery of Florentina spread wide. The opera house's lights glowed small and distant. (What am I doing?) Elena thought this as she removed the dress. There was no answer. There couldn't be. Only one thing was certain—she wouldn't be able to forget tonight for a while.