Chapter 477

The Royal Opera House glittered under the night sky, its marquee announcing the premiere of the season. Evelyn Sinclair clutched her front-row tickets, the crisp paper edges biting into her gloved fingers.

She stepped out of the limousine in a champagne-colored gown that whispered rather than shouted. The high neckline and long sleeves exuded sophistication, while the bias cut accentuated her willowy frame. Preston Sinclair had personally selected this dress from a Parisian atelier and sent it via Bennett.

Paparazzi flashbulbs exploded like fireworks as she approached. The crowd's roar swelled - Lucas Sterling's star power truly knew no bounds. Then disaster struck. Her custom Louboutin caught on the red carpet's edge, sending her stumbling. The delicate stiletto snapped clean at the heel.

Cameras whirred hungrily below. One misstep now would land her on every gossip site by morning. Evelyn bit back a curse and retreated into the limo's sanctuary.

Marcus, her bodyguard, frowned. "Ms. Sterling, what happened?"

"My shoe's destroyed," she hissed. "Find me replacements. Now."

Victoria Ashford materialized like a specter. "I always carry emergency heels in my bag. They should fit you, Ms. Sinclair." Her saccharine smile didn't reach her eyes.

Evelyn studied the offered pumps - decent quality, but clearly off-the-rack. "How...thoughtful," she said through clenched teeth. Time was slipping away like sand through fingers.

The replacement shoes pinched immediately. As she resumed her walk, the left strap suddenly gave way. Evelyn bent to adjust it when icy fingers of dread raced down her spine - her back zipper had split open.

Every hair on her arms stood erect. This wasn't coincidence. This was sabotage. And only one person stood to gain.

Flashbulbs popped like gunfire. Evelyn's mind raced. If she stood now, every camera would capture her humiliation. She could already feel the night air kissing her exposed skin.

Reporters began murmuring at her prolonged crouch. Just as she braced for disaster, warmth enveloped her shoulders. Preston Sinclair's bespoke tuxedo jacket settled around her like a shield.

She looked up into amused hazel eyes. Preston didn't flinch from the cameras, his posture casual as if shielding her from a breeze. The press went wild.

"Is this the mystery man from your Instagram?" shouted one reporter.

"Are you two officially dating?" cried another.

The questions blurred together. All Evelyn registered was Preston's steadying presence as he guided her inside.

In the private lounge, Preston knelt before her. "These shoes are an insult to that dress," he murmured, carefully removing the offending pumps. His fingers lingered a heartbeat too long on her ankle.

Their eyes locked. The air between them crackled.

Three silent seconds stretched into eternity.

Then Nathan Blackwood's voice sliced through the moment like a blade. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"