By 6:00 p.m., the house buzzed with a quiet sense of anticipation. Sarah and Mark were getting ready for the evening's event—the prestigious charity auction hosted at the mayor's residence.
Mark was already waiting in the living room. He wore a charcoal gray suit with a subtle sheen, tailored perfectly to his tall frame. The jacket sat cleanly on his shoulders, the crisp collar of his shirt peeking just above it. His hair, dark and thick, was tied into his usual top knot, effortlessly stylish. He looked like someone who belonged in a magazine spread—elegant, mysterious, and dangerously attractive.
He sat with ease, one leg crossed over the other, fingers lazily brushing the side of his glass of water. There was a natural poise in the way he carried himself, as if the evening ahead didn't hold the slightest pressure.
Upstairs, Sarah was still finishing up. As always, women needed more time—but when she finally appeared, descending the stairs slowly in her heels, the room changed.
She wore a pink nailed-beads spaghetti strap dress. The color wasn't loud or overly girlish—it was soft, refined, and striking in its simplicity. The beads shimmered subtly with every step she took. The dress clung to her figure in all the right places, not too revealing, but certainly enough to make anyone stop and look twice. It fit her like it had been made specifically for her body alone.
Sarah's natural beauty was undeniable. With her silky blonde hair falling in soft waves and her fair skin glowing under the soft lighting, she already looked like someone out of a dream. But tonight, she was something else entirely. Elegant. Dazzling. Dangerous. Her neckline revealed just enough—her bosom firm and proud, seemingly with a mind of its own. She walked with confidence, her posture strong, her expression unreadable.
Mark stared. He had seen countless beautiful women across the centuries, but even so, Sarah made him pause. His gaze followed her slowly, silently. In his mind, he acknowledged the truth—Sarah was easily in the top hundred women he had ever laid eyes on.
For Sarah, it was a small victory. Mark rarely reacted this way. Usually, she was the one glancing at him in awe. But now, finally, he was the one who couldn't look away. And she noticed.
"Can we go now, Mr. Handsome?" she asked teasingly, flashing him a playful smile.
Mark blinked, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Of course we can, Cinderella," he replied with a quiet chuckle, recovering his composure.
Sarah turned toward the garage, ready to fetch the car, but Mark stopped her with a simple gesture.
"Not today," he said.
She raised a brow. "Oh?"
"I'll drive."
With that, he walked ahead, disappearing into the garage. Moments later, the familiar sound of the Audi Q3's engine echoed outside. The car pulled up to the front, sleek and polished under the evening sky.
Sarah stepped out and joined him, slipping into the passenger seat.
And just like that, they drove off—toward the mayor's house, toward a night that promised glitter, scrutiny, and hidden agendas.
But inside that car, it was just the two of them.
---
At the Mayor's House – Grand Ballroom
The chandeliers sparkled like constellations above the crowd, their light reflecting off crystal glasses and glittering gowns. The grand estate was alive with music and murmurs, a sea of polished shoes, designer labels, and the practiced smiles of Upper Manhattan's elite.
Near the edge of the ballroom, a group of young socialites stood with drinks in hand, watching every entrance with anticipation.
"Who else is dying to see Sarah's husband?" Tina asked, swirling the wine in her glass. Her tone was mockingly sweet, but the glint in her eyes was anything but innocent. "The queen of high society, marrying a beggar. I still can't wrap my head around it."
"Oh, I can," Selin replied, smirking. "Rumor has it the man's a magician in bed. That's probably what lured her in. When you're that good, titles don't matter."
Christine raised a brow. "So now we're praising the homeless for their bedroom skills?" Her tone was dry, skeptical. "Even if she is enjoying him for now, it won't last. She'll toss him aside the moment she's bored."
"But she could've done that without marrying him," Selin said. "Why tie herself to him legally? Why put her name and reputation on the line?"
"Maybe you should try him out yourself," Tina said with a laugh, nudging Selin. "Might change your mind after a night."
Selin recoiled, making a dramatic show of disgust. "Ew! That's revolting. Just the thought of sharing a bed with someone who used to sleep under bridges makes me nauseous."
Their laughter echoed lightly, but their eyes kept drifting toward the grand staircase. Each time a couple arrived, they scanned for Sarah's face.
"Has anyone seen Lara?" Christine asked suddenly.
"Speak of the devil," Tina murmured, motioning with her chin.
Lara descended the stairs like she owned them. Her emerald gown, slit high up one thigh, shimmered with every step. The plunging neckline drew every gaze in the room, and she moved slowly, deliberately, knowing exactly what she was doing.
"Damn…" Selin breathed. "She looks incredible. But doesn't that dress show a little too much?"
"She already stole Allan from Sarah," Christine said, arms folded. "Now I guess she's making a statement—this is what power looks like."
Tina scoffed. "She didn't steal Allan because of her looks. Sarah's family business was circling the drain and Allan chose the lifeboat. Simple."
Lara reached them with a poised smile. "Are you ladies talking about me?"
Christine smirked. "Of course we are. If I were a man, I'd want you too."
Lara laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Where's Allan?" Tina asked, feigning disinterest.
"He's upstairs with the mayor," Lara replied. "Discussing business. He'll join me soon."
---
Elsewhere in the Mansion – Private Lounge
Mr. Whitmore stood near the window, staring at the entrance with clenched fists.
"Clara, where is your sister?" he asked sharply. "Why hasn't she arrived yet?"
Clara checked her phone and replied calmly, "They left the house a while ago, Dad. Our man confirmed it. They should be here soon."
Mrs. Whitmore stood beside the fireplace, arms crossed. "Stop calling him her husband."
"But he is her husband, Mother," Clara replied.
"Don't test me tonight," Mrs. Whitmore snapped. "That man is a disgrace to our family name."
Mr. Whitmore turned around, his face tense. "He's not just a disgrace—he's a threat. If Sarah continues flaunting this nonsense, every investor we have left will pull out. We're already walking on a razor's edge."
"I'm still trying to find out who leaked the news," Clara said. "It didn't just magically appear in everyone's mouths."
"Any leads?" Mr. Whitmore pressed.
Clara hesitated. "No. But I told you, just fire the maids. Start there."
Mrs. Whitmore's eyes widened in disbelief. "Fire the staff? Are you out of your mind? We can't afford to hire replacements!"
"Well, someone's leaking information," Clara insisted.
"So then what? You'll scrub the floors yourself?" her mother shot back. "Cook dinner and clean the toilets? Is that your plan?"
Clara blinked in offense. "Mother, I'm a high socialite. I don't even know how to fold laundry."
"Then use your brain before making foolish suggestions," Mrs. Whitmore retorted.
Mr. Whitmore said nothing more. He just stared silently at the door, his thoughts a storm.
They all knew one thing—Sarah's entrance would change everything tonight.
---