The Game of Appearances

POV: Selena Carter

Selena stood in front of the tall mirror, her reflection framed by warm morning light spilling through the penthouse windows. A navy silk blouse draped across her shoulders, paired with tailored white slacks and a pair of nude pumps—powerful, elegant, unshakable.

It wasn’t just an outfit. It was armor.

Today marked her first official planning session for the Community Arts Benefit Gala. Not just any charity event—this was Velmont City’s most publicized philanthropic gathering, where fashion, money, and reputation collided under the glittering lights of luxury halls and flashing cameras. It was where the elite came to parade their names and their influence.

It was, in other words, a battlefield.

And Selena Carter didn’t intend to lose.

The KnightTech black car pulled up in front of the Ashton Grand Hall, a private estate-turned-event-space nestled between the exclusive Rose District and the Velmont Art Quarter. Selena stepped out with practiced grace, nodding briefly at the valet as her heels clicked against the marble walkway.

A woman in a rose-pink suit and a clipboard met her at the entrance.

“Mrs. Knight,” she said with a polished smile, “Ms. Rhodes is expecting you.”

“Thank you.”

Selena followed her through arched doorways and towering halls adorned with art from local creatives—a theme she hoped to emphasize in the benefit itself. The scent of white lilies and jasmine filled the air. Every inch of the place screamed old money and curated taste.

Inside the sunroom, the committee had already gathered. About twelve women, all dressed like walking PR campaigns—statement necklaces, pastel designer suits, silent judgments.

Natalie Rhodes stood at the head of the table, stylish and composed, her silver streaked bob tucked neatly behind one ear.

“Selena,” she greeted warmly. “Right on time.”

All eyes turned.

There was a moment of measured silence, the kind reserved for appraising someone’s worth with a glance.

Selena smiled with confidence and took her seat.

The meeting began with routine formalities. Fund allocation. Catering bids. Sponsorship updates. Selena listened, nodded, and took mental notes. But when the topic shifted to creative direction, she leaned forward.

“I’d like to propose a change to the opening exhibit,” she said, voice smooth but firm.

Natalie glanced over, intrigued. “Go on.”

“We’ve always highlighted established names. This year, I’d like to feature rising artists from Velmont’s inner-city programs. Sculptors, painters, digital artists—young talent that hasn’t had exposure.”

A murmur moved around the table.

One of the women—Portia Langdon, wife of a real estate tycoon and the committee’s resident skeptic—arched a perfectly plucked brow.

“And what does inner-city art say about the Foundation’s image?” she asked with a clipped smile.

Selena met her gaze without blinking. “It says we’re investing in the future. That we’re not just elite women sipping champagne for photo ops, but leaders using our platform to amplify unheard voices.”

Natalie leaned back, a slow smile forming. “I like it.”

“I second it,” said another committee member—Evelyn Blake, a tech venture capitalist’s daughter who had always wanted to prove she was more than her last name.

The vote was taken. The motion passed.

Selena didn’t gloat. She just straightened her spine and looked ahead.

By the time the meeting ended, Selena was the last to gather her things. Natalie approached her by the window, glancing at the cityscape beyond the glass.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” she said simply.

“Thanks, I think.”

Natalie chuckled. “They won’t make it easy for you. But you held your ground. And that proposal? It’ll turn heads.”

Selena’s expression softened. “I want to make this matter. Even if it’s just a gala.”

Natalie gave her a look. “A woman like you could do more than just this. Be careful, though. The higher you rise in Velmont, the more people look for cracks.”

Selena nodded, her tone thoughtful. “Then I better give them a flawless performance.”

When Selena returned home, the penthouse was unusually quiet. She slipped off her heels, her legs sore from the long day, and headed toward the living area.

Leonard was seated on the couch, a tablet in hand and a half-empty glass of scotch on the table beside him. He looked up as she entered.

“You made an impression today,” he said.

She blinked. “You knew about the meeting?”

“I make it a habit to know what my wife is doing—especially when it involves the social scene tied to my name.”

There was no edge to his voice, just fact.

Selena crossed her arms. “Are you checking up on me or observing me like a company stock?”

Leonard set the tablet down and met her gaze evenly. “You’ve gone up in value.”

It should’ve annoyed her.

But instead, she let out a short laugh and moved to sit across from him.

“Well, if I’m an investment, I plan to yield very high returns.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “So I noticed.”

They sat in quiet for a beat.

“Portia Langdon questioned your proposal,” Leonard said.

Selena raised a brow. “You really do keep tabs.”

“She’s threatened. That means you’re doing something right.”

She tilted her head. “And what about you? Are you threatened?”

Leonard looked at her long enough for her to feel the air tighten between them. Then, he said,

“No. I’m intrigued.”

Later that night, as the city lights bled into the walls of her bedroom, Selena found herself unable to sleep.

She padded out into the kitchen, barefoot and in silk, and reached for the tea canister.

Leonard’s voice startled her. “You drink tea at midnight?”

She turned to find him leaning against the hallway arch, sleeves rolled up, no tie, collar open.

“You sneak around the penthouse in silence?” she countered.

“I call it being observant.”

“Stalker-ish.”

His lips twitched again.

Selena poured the hot water, the steam curling between them.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “About the gala. About this marriage.”

He stepped forward slightly. “What about it?”

“I’m tired of pretending we’re something we’re not. But I also can’t keep walking on eggshells with you.”

Leonard’s expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes flickered.

She continued, her voice quieter now. “This contract might be fake. But I’m real. And I won’t apologize for showing up as myself.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Leonard said, “You shouldn’t.”

She looked up, surprised.

“You’re right,” he added. “You’re not here to decorate my life. You’re here to live yours. And I underestimated how well you’d do that.”

It was the closest thing to praise she’d ever gotten from him. And it felt… genuine.

Selena looked at him for a long time, then offered a small, tired smile.

“I don’t need you to like me, Leonard. But I do need to be respected.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then he said, “You have it.”

Her breath hitched. She looked away, sipping her tea.

They stood in quiet understanding. Not friends. Not lovers. But maybe—just maybe—starting to see each other.

The next day, the world moved quickly.

Selena received an invitation to speak at a smaller press event tied to the benefit. Not the main gala, but a curated pre-event hosted by the Velmont Art Conservatory. It was short notice—only five days away.

She stared at the gold-trimmed card in her hand, noting the media sponsors listed below. Harper Velmont. Veux Magazine. Even someone from the city council.

This wasn’t just about art. This was about stepping into the political spotlight of the city.

Selena exhaled and picked up her phone.

She texted Leonard.

S: I need your stylist. And possibly a speechwriter.

L: You don’t need a speechwriter.

S: You think I should just wing it?

L: No. I think you’ll write something better than a paid professional. You’ve got conviction. Use it.

She stared at the message for a long time before smiling softly.

S: You really are full of surprises.

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