Chapter 4: The Blue Diamond Gala

The mirror in the grand dressing room reflected a stranger.

I wore a floor-length emerald-green silk gown that hugged my waist and flowed around my feet like liquid velvet. My hair, usually tied back in a messy bun, was styled into elegant, soft waves resting over one shoulder. But the true masterpiece was sitting at the hollow of my throat.

The emerald necklace.

Under the warm chandeliers, the central gem didn't just shine—it pulsed with a deep, mesmerizing fire. Beside it, the halo of diamonds caught every ray of light, turning me into a focal point of terrifying elegance.

"You look breathtaking, Miss Jawaher."

Mr. Tanam stood by the doorway, holding a black velvet clutch. For the first time since I met him, his posture softened, his cold demeanor momentarily melting into something resembling respect.

"Your mother wore that exact necklace to her first gala," he said softly, handing me the clutch. "She commanded the room without saying a single word. Do the same tonight."

I drew a long, shaky breath and nodded. "I'll try."

"Remember," Tanam added, his tone sharpening back to business. "Tonight is not just a party. It is the annual De-Silva Gem Exhibition. Everyone who matters in Asia’s elite circle will be there—including your uncle Vikram, and Arthur De-Silva himself."

My chest tightened at the name. *Arthur De-Silva.* The man whose shadow hung over my mother’s past like a curse.

The Grand Hyatt ballroom was an ocean of black-tie tuxedos, diamond tiaras, and champagne glasses clinking beneath massive crystal chandeliers. Classical strings echoed through the air, drowned out only by the hushed whispers of billionaires, diplomats, and media moguls.

The moment Mr. Tanam and I stepped onto the marble balcony overlooking the main floor, the room seemed to shift.

Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire.

*"Is that... Surya Prakash’s granddaughter?"*

*"Look at that emerald! Isn't that the Lost Lotus?"*

*"She looks just like her mother..."*

I gripped my clutch tightly, holding my chin high just as Tanam had advised. But as I descended the grand staircase, a familiar, imposing figure blocked my path at the bottom.

Vikram Prakash.

He wore a tailored black tuxedo, but his face was contorted in a mask of suppressed rage. Beside him stood a few board members who had tried to intimidate me the day before.

"You have nerve showing your face here," Vikram snarled in a low voice, leaning in so the press couldn't catch his words. "And wearing *that*? That necklace belongs to the Prakash trust, not a street charity case."

"It belonged to my mother," I replied, meeting his glare with absolute coldness. "Which makes it mine. If you want it back, Uncle Vikram, you'll have to take it from me in front of all these cameras."

Vikram’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with dangerous malice. "Enjoy your little moment, Jawaher. Because by the end of this ninety-day probation, you won't just lose this empire... you'll vanish, just like your pathetic mother did."

Before the dread could fully sink into my bones, a hand settled gently against the small of my back.

The touch was warm, commanding, and instantly sent a spark of electricity racing up my spine.

"Is there a problem here, Vikram?"

Rohan.

He looked lethally handsome in a midnight-black tuxedo, his crisp white shirt contrasting sharply with his bronzed skin. His dark hair was brushed back, highlighting the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw and those piercing hazel eyes that seemed to strip away every defense I had.

Vikram stiffened, pulling back a step. "Rohan. Just reminding my niece of her place."

"Her place is at the top of this dynasty," Rohan said smoothly, his voice dripping with icy authority. He stepped closer, his body subtly shielding me from Vikram. "And as host of this evening's gala, I suggest you mind your manners, Vikram. Or my security will gladly escort you to the door."

Vikram glared at us both, his eyes darting between Rohan's protective posture and my defiant expression, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd with a bitter huff.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Rohan turned to face me, his gaze sweeping over my dress before settling on my eyes.

A slow, devastating smirk curved his lips. "I told you to be ready, but you... you're a distraction, Jawaher."

My heart did a traitorous flip. "A distraction?"

"Every man in this room is looking at you," he murmured, stepping closer until I could smell the rich, intoxicating scent of cedarwood and rain on his skin. "And every woman is wondering how a girl who appeared out of nowhere is wearing the most dangerous jewel in Asia."

"Dangerous?" I whispered.

Before he could answer, the music died down, and a microphone chimed across the ballroom.

*"Ladies and gentlemen,"* the announcer’s voice boomed. *"Please welcome the Chairman of the De-Silva Consortium... Mr. Arthur De-Silva!"*

The crowd broke into polite applause as the spotlight shifted to the main stage.

An older man walked out. He moved with a cane, his posture rigid and his hair stark white, but his eyes were the exact same piercing hazel as Rohan's. Cold, calculating, and ruthless.

My breath hitched in my throat. *The man responsible for my mother's disappearance.*

Arthur took the microphone, giving a brief speech about the rare gems being auctioned tonight. But halfway through his speech, his eyes scanned the crowd—and landed straight on me.

Or more accurately, on the emerald necklace resting against my chest.

Arthur froze mid-sentence. His color drained, his grip on his cane tightening until his knuckles turned ghost-white. For a fraction of a second, genuine shock and fear flickered across the old man's face.

He quickly recovered, finishing his speech with a strained smile, but his eyes never left me as he stepped off the stage and signaled for his head of security.

I felt a chill run through my veins. "He recognized it..."

"He didn't just recognize the necklace, Jawaher," Rohan whispered beside me, his voice dangerously low.

I turned to look at him, but Rohan wasn't looking at his father. He was looking down at me, his hazel eyes dark with an unreadable emotion.

"He recognized the woman wearing it," Rohan continued, his fingers brushing against mine in the dark. "My father thought your mother was dead. Seeing you here... wearing her crown... just flipped the entire board."

"Rohan," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and realization. "What really happened sixteen years ago?"

Rohan looked deep into my eyes, his grip on my hand tightening softly.

"Tonight," he murmured, "we find out."

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***