Married to the Coldest Media King

The red carpet was a river of blood and flashbulbs. The air crackled with the frantic energy of a thousand cameras.

Dylan's car-a rented sedan, not a limo-pulled up to the curb. The doorman hesitated. He didn't rush to open it.

Dylan didn't wait. She pushed the door open herself.

She stepped out.

The silence that fell over the press pit was immediate.

She was wearing black. Not velvet, not silk. It was a structured, architectural chaotic mess of industrial fabric. It absorbed the light rather than reflecting it. It was jagged, sharp, and dangerous. Her makeup was severe-pale skin, dark eyes, and that signature blood-red lip.

She looked like a widow mourning the death of capitalism.

Is that... a trash bag? someone whispered.

Then, the shutters went crazy. Click-click-click-click.

Before she could take a step, a reporter from a notorious gossip site, prompted by a subtle nod from Ivana Mcknight further up the stairs, shoved a microphone in her face.

"Dylan! Is it true your father used the pension funds of widows to buy your first pony?" he shouted.

Dylan walked. She didn't smile. She moved with a predatory grace, her chin tilted up.

At the top of the stairs, blocking the entrance, stood Ivana Mcknight. She was wearing gold. So much gold she looked like a walking bullion bar. Feathers, sequins, excess.

Ivana saw Dylan and laughed. She gathered her entourage of socialites.

Oh my god, Ivana shouted, her voice carrying over the crowd. Did you get lost, Dylan? The sanitation department entrance is around the back.

The crowd tittered. A camera crew zoomed in on Dylan's face, waiting for the tears.

Dylan stopped on the step below Ivana. She looked up.

It's called deconstruction, Ivana, Dylan said, her voice calm and projecting perfectly. Although I suppose you wouldn't understand irony. You look like a deep-fried canary.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. A fashion blogger near the front typed furiously on his phone.

Ivana's face turned purple. You insolent little-

Security! Ivana shrieked. Get this trash out of here!

Before the guards could move, a hush fell over the bottom of the stairs. A heavy, respectful silence.

A Rolls Royce Phantom had pulled up.

Garland Brennan stepped out.

He was wearing a midnight blue tuxedo, cut so sharply it could slice skin. He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't wave. He walked up the red carpet with the inevitability of a tide.

He reached the stairs. Ivana instantly changed her expression. She beamed, pushing her chest out.

Garland! she cooed. So good to see you!

Garland didn't even break stride. He walked past Ivana as if she were a potted plant.

He stopped next to Dylan.

He turned his head and looked at her. He looked at the black tarp dress. His eyes traveled from the hem to her face.

Dylan held her breath. This was it. He could end her right here. One look of disgust, and she was done.

Garland looked her in the eye. And then, he nodded.

It was a small movement. A microscopic dip of the chin. But in the language of power, it was a knighthood.

Nice dress, he murmured, so only she could hear. Very... economical.

Then he turned and walked into the museum.

The press went wild.

Did you see that?

Brennan acknowledged her!

They are together! It's true!

Ivana stood there, her mouth open, ignored and forgotten.

Dylan let out a breath. She had gambled everything on that nod. And she had won.

She walked past Ivana, brushing shoulders with her.

Excuse me, Dylan said softly. I have a date.