Le Belle Époque was everything its name promised—timeless elegance, a sanctuary of beauty that commanded reverence. A live piano hummed softly, its melody weaving between hushed conversations and the crystalline chime of glasses. Golden light from the chandeliers bathed polished mahogany tables, while the aroma of decadent dishes wrapped the room in indulgence. My table, tucked into a secluded corner, offered the perfect balance of privacy and presence. I had chosen it deliberately—hidden from curious eyes, yet still immersed in the grandeur.
I smoothed the silky black gown clinging to me like a second skin. Its daring slit, its flawless tailoring—they weren't just fabric, they were transformation. I wasn't the shy, reserved girl anymore. Tonight, I was bold. Fearless. In control. The gown wasn't merely attire; it was armor. The shrinking violet my family had molded was gone. I would write my own fate.
As I savored the velvet depths of my wine, a hush rippled across the room. The very air seemed to hold its breath. I didn't need to look up to know—he had arrived.
Damian Blackwood.
He moved like he owned the silence, each stride steeped in effortless authority. His tuxedo was immaculate, every line exact. One hand rested in his pocket, his presence sharp enough to draw every gaze in the room. Dark, unruly hair framed his chiseled features, the faint shadow along his jaw adding danger to his refinement. The crowd's eyes followed him, but his—his eyes—scanned with the focus of a predator.
When they found me, his stride faltered. Just barely. Surprise flickered across his face, and it sparked something deep inside me. Outwardly, I remained composed.
"Lena?" His voice was low, edged with disbelief.
"Mr. Blackwood." My reply slid out smooth, steady. I wasn't the timid girl who once stumbled beneath his gaze.
He studied me, sharp eyes sweeping as if to reconcile the woman before him with the girl he remembered. But that girl—quiet, compliant—was gone.
"You've changed," he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.
I tilted my head, letting a quiet challenge curve my smile. "I'd say it's about time."
He chuckled softly, settling into the chair across from me, his confidence slipping back into place. But beneath it lingered something else—curiosity, surprise. "Apologies for keeping you waiting," he said, voice edged with regret. "I had matters to attend to."
"I understand," I said, swirling my wine, savoring the cool trace of glass against my fingers. "But I didn't call you here for pleasantries, Mr. Blackwood."
"Straight to business?" he teased, a glint of intrigue in his eyes.
I didn't waver. This was my moment. "Do you remember when you told me to take control of my life? To stop letting others dictate my decisions?"
He nodded, expression unreadable. "I do."
"Well," I said, locking my gaze on his, "I took your advice. And now, I need your help." I leaned forward, tension thickening the air. "I'm offering you a deal—one that benefits us both. A marriage of convenience."
For the first time since he entered, his smirk faltered. His eyes sharpened, weighing me, testing whether I was serious—or playing a dangerous game.
"Go on," he said, voice low, cautious.
I drew in a steady breath. "You're the second-largest shareholder in Ellison Enterprises. My uncle trusts you, and your influence in the company is undeniable. I need someone at my side—not only for business, but to secure the legacy my father and uncle built."
Damian leaned closer, eyes locked on mine. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was a blade, precise and assessing. "And what's in it for me?"
"Stability," I said, each word measured. "Partnership. The assurance that the company you've invested in stays intact—safe from the storm that's coming."
He regarded me in silence, the weight of it pressing heavy between us. Then, slowly, a smile curved his lips—dangerous, almost predatory. "Marrying me is a perilous proposition, Miss Ellison."
I didn't flinch. "I've never been afraid of danger."
His eyes narrowed, though something flickered beneath—admiration? caution? "You're ambitious," he said, tone rich with both approval and warning. "But ambition doesn't always lead to good decisions."
"Neither does hesitation," I countered. "And I'm not hesitating."
The silence stretched taut, charged with unspoken challenges. Finally, Damian leaned back, smirk returning, eyes glinting with amusement. "You've certainly piqued my interest, Lena. Let's see where this goes.
________________________________________
Flashback: One Week Earlier
The rhythmic tap of my fingers against the keyboard filled my small apartment, a steady counterpoint to the chaos that always seemed to stalk me. Coding had become my refuge—a place where logic silenced the world, where numbers bent to my will. Unlike the glittering boardrooms and lavish soirées my family adored, I found solace in algorithms, in problems I could solve. For those brief hours, I could breathe.
Until my phone rang.
"Hello?" I answered, frowning at the unfamiliar number.
"Elena Ellison?" The voice was sharp, authoritative. "This is Robert Langley, your uncle's lawyer. We need to meet. Immediately."
My heart skipped. "Is something wrong?"
"It's about your uncle," he said, urgency thick in his tone. "I'll send you the address."
The line went dead before I could speak. Cold dread coiled in my chest. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.