The gala dragged on like a gilded nightmare.
Every smile Emilia gave was calculated. Every movement rehearsed. She'd learned early—beauty was armor, silence was survival.
But that didn't make it easier.
They spoke around her, never to her. The vultures in velvet gowns and diamond cuffs. The men in pressed tuxedos with dead eyes and hungers they pretended to disguise. Everyone here played the same game—smile, sip, slander.
And Damien Cross moved through them like a born predator.
His arm never left hers, but his attention rarely settled on her. He was too busy shaking hands with senators and exchanging nods with billionaires. Deals and dominance hung off him like cologne.
Emilia felt invisible.
Until she wasn't.
"Emilia Blackwood," a voice drawled behind her. Low. Velvet-lined. Amused.
She turned.
A man stood near the bar, backlit by chandelier light. He was tall, lean, dressed in an ash-grey tuxedo tailored so sharply it could draw blood. His features were elegant, almost too perfect—cheekbones like marble, lips shaped for sin, eyes the color of drowning.
"I'm sorry," she said smoothly. "Do we know each other?"
"No," he replied, smiling slowly. "But I know you."
She arched an eyebrow. "That's not creepy at all."
His laughter was warm. Dangerous. "I suppose not. Then again, I've always had a taste for rare things."
Her stomach tightened.
He didn't look drunk. He looked entertained. Like he was watching a chessboard and already knew how the game ended.
"I'm afraid I'm spoken for," she said, lifting her hand with the ring Damien had slipped on her finger.
The man's eyes flicked to it. His smile didn't fade.
"Spoken for," he repeated, like he was tasting the phrase. "By Damien Cross. How interesting."
Before she could respond, Damien's voice slid between them like a blade. "Vale."
Ah. So they did know each other.
The stranger—Vale, apparently—turned with a mocking sort of grace. "Damien. Always a pleasure."
Damien didn't offer his hand. "You're not on the guest list."
"I was bored," Vale replied, sipping from a crystal glass. "And curious."
He glanced at Emilia again. Something in his eyes was softer now. Curious, yes. But something else too. Recognition? No—calculation.
"I've heard all sorts of things," Vale said, gesturing vaguely toward them both. "That you bought her to piss off the board. That she's a tax write-off. That it's a publicity stunt before you run for office."
Damien didn't blink. "Believe whatever makes you feel clever."
"I usually do."
The two men stared at each other. Emilia felt like she was watching two wolves circling the same carcass. And she wasn't sure who the carcass was.
"Lovely meeting you, Mrs. Cross," Vale said, with a bow that didn't match his smirk. "We'll talk again soon."
She doubted it. And yet… her skin prickled.
He disappeared into the crowd, leaving the scent of arrogance and oud behind.
Damien turned to her. "Don't talk to him."
Her brow lifted. "You mean the man you refused to introduce?"
"He's dangerous."
"So are you," she said flatly.
He looked at her then. Not through her—at her. Something flickered in those ice-pale eyes.
"Not to you," he said.
She didn't believe him. Not for a second.
---
Back at the penthouse, Emilia collapsed onto the velvet chaise, heels abandoned, hair loosened. The city lights stretched beyond the glass like a promise she couldn't quite touch.
Damien had gone to his office. Or hell. She didn't care which.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from her friend Sierra.
You survived. I'm proud of you. But girl… your husband is terrifying.
Emilia stared at the text.
Then typed back:
He's not the scariest man I met tonight.
---
In her dreams, Vale returned. But this time, he stood behind her in a burning ballroom, whispering things she couldn't unders
tand.
When she turned to look at him, he was gone.
And Damien stood there instead.
Bleeding.
Alone.