Mark was pressed against Cecilia, acutely aware of the softness of her waist, though his expression revealed nothing of his internal state.

Involved in the evening's mingling, he held a cigarette between his slender, pale fingers, not for smoking but perhaps as a social prop.

His handsome features complemented his formidable background.

Here, no one would dare challenge him or pressure him into smoking or drinking.

The room buzzed with energy.

Cecilia, mostly quiet, found herself the focus when a tipsy gentleman offered her a glass of wine, slurring, "A toast from Miss Fowler shall guarantee funding for the play.”

Her eyes lifted.

Simon, caught in the tension between appeasing wealthy patrons and respecting the Fowler name, was apprehensive.

The prospect of a Fowler daughter entertaining the investor was unimaginable.

Previously, Cecilia would have declined without hesitation, but Simon's faith and validation meant something to her, and he used to be such a big help to her career... If her accepting the wine could secure the investment, pride had no place.

Under the expectant eyes of the crowd, Cecilia rose, glass in hand.

She offered a poised smile.

"Mr. Medina, I trust you'll honor your word."

As she prepared to sip, a slender hand enveloped hers, steadying the glass.

It was Mark.

A collective gasp filled the space.

They were taken aback. Mark's audacity to casually touch a lady, and not just any, but a Fowler, was startling.

Yet Nothing happened next. There was no slap, no rebuke from Cecilia.

Instead, a silent, intense exchange held between them.

The onlookers grasped at once that this was no ordinary interaction.