The Spotlight Game

POV: Selena Carter

Five days wasn’t enough to plan a speech for half the city’s elite. But for Selena Carter, it was just enough to design a strategy.

She stood in the walk-in closet, surrounded by neatly organized racks of silk, satin, and tailored couture. Her stylist—Leonard’s, technically—stood nearby, nervously holding up two potential options for the Velmont Art Conservatory’s media event.

“This one screams ‘future society icon,’” the stylist said, holding up a bold crimson dress with a structured neckline. “But this—” she lifted a black-and-gold number with a high slit “—says ‘power and mystery.’”

Selena didn’t blink. “Neither.”

The stylist hesitated. “Neither?”

Selena turned to her, voice even. “I want something classic. Subtle. A silhouette that won’t distract from my words, but enough elegance that they’ll lean in and listen.”

The stylist gave a slow nod. “You’re not dressing to impress.”

“No,” Selena said. “I’m dressing to control the narrative.”

The Velmont Art Conservatory sparkled with glass chandeliers and light jazz as guests poured into the marbled atrium. Cameras lined the entrance. Flashes popped. Names were whispered, evaluated, and filed into the city’s social hierarchy with each new arrival.

Selena stepped onto the carpet in a dove-grey silk dress that fit like calm power. She didn’t smile for the cameras—she acknowledged them. A tilt of her chin, a poised glance, a slight step toward the right lens. Calculated.

Inside, Leonard was already speaking to a group near the exhibit hall. He wore black. No tie. Minimalist perfection.

He noticed her almost immediately, and though he didn’t move, there was a flicker in his eyes—subtle, but real.

She nodded in return and moved to greet the press coordinator.

Fifteen minutes later, Selena stood before a cluster of journalists, artists, and patrons—each sipping champagne and pretending not to analyze her every word.

“I didn’t grow up dreaming of galas,” she began, her voice clear and calm. “I dreamed of building something. Something lasting. Not just fashion, not just luxury, but legacy.”

The cameras clicked.

“And legacy,” she continued, “isn’t just what we leave behind. It’s what we choose to elevate while we’re still here.”

A pause.

“This city is full of brilliance—hidden in its alleys, sketchbooks, and spoken word. This gala isn’t about prestige. It’s about revealing the art we’ve overlooked.”

She didn’t smile until the last line. And when she did, it was soft and measured.

By the time she stepped down, a few reporters had already started jotting down quotes. One leaned toward her.

“Selena—are you planning a broader public role? Some say this event positions you as a rising civic figure.”

Selena tilted her head. “I’m not positioning anything. I’m simply doing what matters.”

But it was exactly the kind of whisper she wanted planted.

Leonard approached her after the speech, a drink in his hand, a rare softness in his expression.

“You handled that better than some mayors I’ve met,” he said.

“Good,” she replied. “They’ll be watching for cracks. I want them to see steel.”

He studied her face for a moment, then leaned slightly closer—not intimately, just enough so his voice lowered.

“Your message,” he said. “It was personal.”

Selena’s eyes flicked to his. “Every calculated move I make is personal.”

Leonard’s lips twitched. “So you admit it’s all a game.”

“It’s not a game,” she murmured. “It’s survival.”

There was a pause—then a shift.

Leonard’s tone dropped. “You know, you remind me of someone.”

She raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” he said. “He was ruthless, brilliant, and never showed his cards until the last second.”

“Friend?”

“Enemy.”

Selena tilted her head. “Family?”

He didn’t answer.

But she caught it—the tightness in his jaw, the faint flicker of tension that passed through his eyes.

Leonard took a sip of his drink, his gaze drifting momentarily toward the far end of the room where a photographer was chatting with a man in a grey suit.

Selena followed his gaze. “Someone you know?”

Leonard’s voice was quiet. “Used to. He worked for my father. Before he… disappeared.”

She didn’t press. She didn’t need to. She catalogued the information like a weapon—tucked away, stored for later.

Back at the penthouse, Selena showered off the night’s performance and wrapped herself in a robe. Her phone buzzed on the counter. A message from Cassandra.

Cassandra: That speech was dangerously good. You’re making waves.

Selena: Let them ripple. I’m just getting started.

Cassandra: Be careful. Leonard’s past has more shadows than you know.

Selena frowned. What do you know about his past?

But Cassandra didn’t reply.

Selena walked into the study where Leonard was reviewing data on his tablet. She paused in the doorway.

“Do you regret it?” she asked suddenly.

Leonard looked up. “Regret what?”

“Marrying me.”

He stared at her, unreadable.

Then he said, “Do you regret marrying me?”

“I didn’t ask first.”

“I know. But it’s a fair question.”

Selena crossed her arms. “I regret the reasons behind it. But not the result.”

Leonard nodded slowly. “Then I guess we’re even.”

They stood in silence again. The distance between them was vast—but not cold.

“Why don’t you talk about your family?” she asked softly.

Leonard’s eyes didn’t move. “Because some stories shouldn’t be told until you’re ready to hear the truth.”

“Is it about your father?”

This time, his gaze did shift—piercing, defensive, almost vulnerable.

“You don’t want to get involved in that,” he said finally.

Selena didn’t respond. She just turned away and whispered, “Maybe I already am.”

The next morning, Leonard sat at the breakfast table reading a news alert on his phone. The article headline read: Selena Carter-Knight Shines at Art Conservatory Gala—Wife of KnightTech CEO Gains Public Favor in Cultural Circles.

He sipped his coffee slowly, eyes lingering on her photo.

Selena walked in moments later, hair pulled into a soft bun, blazer over her arm.

“Early meeting with the gallery board,” she said.

“You’re building something,” he said without looking up.

She paused. “That surprises you?”

“No. But I thought it might be a mask. I was wrong.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then walked over and took his coffee cup from his hand—gently, without asking—and sipped it.

“See?” she said. “You’re learning.”

He smirked, just barely.

As she turned to go, he added, “My father’s name is Marcus Knight. If anyone starts whispering it to you—walk away.”

Selena didn’t turn around. “No.”

He frowned. “No?”