Ian's POV
Victoria's voice crackled faintly through the speaker, bright yet distant — like a star too far from earth to warm anything.
"I've been trying to reach Mom all day, but the network's terrible on set," she explained hurriedly. "Please tell her I'm sorry I couldn't make it tonight. I love her — truly. I promise I'll visit soon."
I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers to my temple.
"Victoria, you've said that for three years now," I replied, my tone firmer than I intended. "Every family gathering becomes my responsibility alone. How do you expect me to face her again?"
She sighed — that elegant, rehearsed sigh she reserved for interviews and press calls.
"Ian… acting isn't a hobby anymore. The new season premieres soon, and tonight's casting rehearsal is crucial. You, of all people, should understand commitment."
Commitment. An interesting word — especially coming from someone so skilled at escaping it.
"Fine," I said curtly. "I'll tell her. But this is the last time I speak for you."
Before she could reply, I ended the call.
*******
The dining hall glowed beneath the crystal chandeliers. Warm amber light spilled across the polished mahogany floors, reflecting the shimmer of silver utensils and the ivory porcelain set neatly before us. The long dining table was dressed elegantly — fresh orchids at the center, candles flickering softly between crystal wine glasses.
Dinner in my mother's house was never simply a meal. It was a ceremony — and a battlefield.
House staff moved with disciplined grace, serving roasted duck, creamy truffle risotto, and fresh salmon infused with herbs. Everything smelled exquisite, yet I felt nothing — only a familiar weight sinking into my chest.
My mother sat at the head of the table, posture regal, her expression composed yet sharp enough to slice through steel. Camila sat diagonally across from me, smiling politely, her manner refined and poised. Her expression gentle but unreasonable.
And yet — the silence between us felt colder than winter. My mom's folk paused mid-air, her eyes scanned the empty chair beside me.
Her lips tightened.
"Where is your sister?" she asked, voice low but edged with disappointment. "Does Victoria require my personal invitation every time? One would think she'd eventually grow a sense of responsibility."
I clasped my hands together, back straight, maintaining etiquette — as expected of a Vance.
"She had a filming engagement tonight," I replied evenly. "She sends her love."
My mother scoffed softly.
"That ridiculous acting career again. Fame — your generation's favorite poison,destroying family values. People abandoning their families in pursuit of applause. Utter foolishness."
I didn't respond. Arguing would only fuel her irritation.
Camila lowered her gaze discreetly, gently dabbing her lips with a napkin before taking a sip of wine.
Mother turned to her.
"Camila, sweetheart… I heard someone attempted to sabotage one of your projects this week. Is that true?"
Camila smiled faintly — calm, composed, unbothered.
"It was nothing serious, Aunt," she replied gracefully. "I handled it before it escalated."
She always did. Not even her emotions slipped through.
A model partner — at least in my mother's eyes.
Mother nodded approvingly before turning her gaze toward me.
"Ian — I reviewed your latest design proposals," she said, tone firm yet deliberate. "They felt… restrained. Forced, almost. As if creativity itself were suffocating. This could damage our market momentum."
Her words were sharp — but honest.
I swallowed the sting and nodded.
"I'll review the team's drafts before the week ends," I replied calmly. "I'll ensure the next collection speaks for itself."
Creativity cannot be rushed," she replied firmly. "Fashion breathes – it must be felt." Camila placed her wineglass down gently and spoke , her voice silk over steel.
"If anyone is to blame, it's me, Aunt. I'm responsible for overseeing new creative concepts. I promise I'll deliver something extraordinary — something worthy of the Vance legacy."
My mother's stern expression softened.
"You are a blessing to my son, Camila. Unlike Elara — who has done nothing but stain our family's reputation. I am grateful you came into Ian's life."
Camila smiled sweetly.
"Thank you, Aunt. I will always stand beside Ian."
Her words lingered — heavy, intentional.
My mother folded her napkin gracefully, then finally asked the question I had been dreading since I walked into the room.
"Which brings me to tonight's purpose," she said gently. "When do you both plan to marry? I want grandchildren — laughter in this house again."
The candle flames seemed to flicker harsher.
I set down my cutlery slowly, jaw tightening.
"We planned to discuss that when the timing was right," I replied carefully.
Camila tilted her head ever so slightly — her smile polite, but her eyes sharp.
"Did we?" she said softly. "I don't recall agreeing to a timeline."
Mother's gaze hardened.
"Ian — you are no longer a boy chasing distractions. It's time to secure your future. Camila is the perfect woman for you."
Silence wrapped the room like frost.
I pushed the chair back and stood.
"Mom, let's talk about this another day. I still have work to finish at the company." I leaned down and kissed her cheeks.
"Good night."
Camila and I made our way toward the exit, but my mother spoke again.
"Ian. Stay. Camila, dear — wait in the car. I'll send him out shortly."
"Of course, Aunt." Camila kissed my cheek lightly. "I'll be waiting, babe."
Once she left, my mother walked toward me, her heels echoing against the polished floor. She held a small velvet box in her hand.
She opened it.
Inside — my grandmother's ring.
"This belonged to my mother," she said softly. "It is time you placed it on Camila's hand. Do not keep her waiting any longer."
Her expectations weighed heavier than the gold itself. I stared at the ring for a moment… then took it — though my chest felt hollow. "Thank you,Mom."
In the car, silence stretched between Camila and me like a drawn wire.
She reached for my hand.
I gently withdrew.
Her breath hitched — barely noticeable, but I saw it.
"Ian… why did you say that in front of your mother?" she asked quietly, voice trembling beneath restraint. "Do you have any idea how humiliating that sounded?"
I turned to her — expression unreadable.
"I spoke honestly," I said, tone level. "We can't afford illusions in business."
Tears glimmered in her eyes, though she fought to hold composure.
"I am tired of being introduced as merely your fiancée," she whispered. "I want more than titles. I want you — your heart, your certainty… your commitment."
Her vulnerability struck something deep — yet buried.
"I'm not refusing you," I replied, voice low. "But now is not the right time. My work consumes everything — and I fear marriage would give you only fragments of me."
She studied my face carefully.
"Then I will wait," she said softly. "Just promise me — our future isn't an illusion."
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
"I promise."
She leaned forward and kissed me — desperate, longing. I let her — because for a fleeting moment, it was easier than pushing her away.
"Stop the car, Michael," she said softly. "I need to collect the revised drafts from Jessica. I won't be long."
She stepped out.
And that was when I saw her again.
Elara.
Cold wind swept across the pavement as she exited her car — unwavering, unapologetic, untamed.
Without thinking, I followed.
I caught her arm gently.
She turned — eyes sharp, lips curling into a bitter smirk.
"Well, well… Mr. Vance," she said coolly. "Stalking me in the middle of the night now?"
"Elara — what are you planning?" I asked quietly. "Why are you here?"
She jerked her arm away, shoving me back.
"Since when do I owe you explanations?" she snapped. "Stay out of my life, Ian. I have nothing left to say to you."
I reached for her again.
"Just listen—"
Suddenly, she clutched my collar — pulling my hand to her waist.
Her voice rose into a piercing cry.
"Help! Someone call the police! He's harassing me!"
People turned — phones raised, anger igniting like wildfire.
A man lunged toward me.
Another shouted.
The world blurred into chaos. "Elara stop –" But she smirked. A small, victorious smile.
And then— she slipped back into her car and sped off. The crowd erupted.
What a disgrace!"
"He should be arrested!"
Someone moved toward me — ready to swing.
Then Camila burst forward like a storm.
"Don't you dare touch him!" she snapped.
"He was harassing a woman!" a man shouted. "We all saw!"
Camila stood tall — elegant, composed — yet fierce.
"You saw what she wanted you to see," she replied coldly. "My fiancé is not that kind of man."
Murmurs spread.
Recognition followed.
"Isn't that Camila Vale?"
"She's even prettier in person…"
"I pity her — living with him…"
Camila glared.
"Enough. Don't say another word about him."
Silence fell.
Without hesitation, she took my hand.
"Let's go, Ian."
We returned to the car.
"Drive, Michael," she said firmly.
The engine started.
"There was no need to defend me," I said coldly. I know how to take matters into my own hands.
"Yes, there was," she whispered. "Because I know you. You'd never hurt a woman."
She rested her hand over mine.
"I love you, Ian."
Her voice trembled…
…and my mother's words echoed in my head.
Camila is the perfect woman for you.
Perfect.
Stable.
Devoted.
Everything I should want.
So why did my chest feel so unbearably heavy?