The Whitmore Charity Gala was held at the Rosemont Grand Hotel—a place so opulent it could make royalty feel underdressed. Crystal chandeliers hung like stars from the ceiling. The floor shimmered under the lights. Every table was draped in gold-trimmed linen, and every guest sparkled in couture and diamonds.
Elena had never seen so much wealth in one room.
She stepped out of the car onto a red carpet lit by a dozen camera flashes. Reporters buzzed on both sides, shouting names and swinging microphones. Damien extended a hand to her—steady, composed, theatrical.
"Smile," he murmured, slipping his arm around her waist.
Her body tensed at his touch, but she managed a dazzling smile, the kind that made her cheeks ache instantly.
"Mr. Cross! Over here!"
"Is that your fiancée?"
"What's her name?"
"When's the wedding?"
Damien leaned close and whispered into her ear, voice low for the cameras. "You're doing fine. Just follow my lead."
She nodded, heart pounding.
The flashes continued as they walked the carpet like a true power couple. Elena let herself relax into the role, letting Damien's presence shield her. When he gently took her hand and kissed her knuckles, she laughed lightly—perfectly on cue.
Inside the ballroom, the music was soft jazz, the air thick with perfume and ego.
"Stick close," Damien said as they approached a group of investors and their spouses. "This crowd can smell a fraud faster than they can spot a tax loophole."
"Lovely," she muttered.
The first person they greeted was a man with slicked-back hair and a glass of champagne. "Damien," he said with a grin, "and this must be the mysterious fiancée I've heard so much about."
"Elena Carter," Damien said smoothly, pulling her slightly forward. "She's the best secret I've ever kept."
Elena offered her hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
The man took it, gaze lingering too long. "Charming and gorgeous. Where did you find her?"
"She found me," Damien replied, shooting him a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
The group laughed, but Elena caught it—that edge beneath Damien's charm. Possessive. Cold.
Over the next hour, she met at least twenty people—most of whom only addressed her to size up her dress or comment on Damien's taste.
Still, she played her part: laughing at the right moments, keeping her posture perfect, pretending she belonged.
Eventually, they broke away for a moment of air near the terrace. Elena leaned on the marble railing, letting the night cool her flushed cheeks.
"You're doing surprisingly well," Damien said beside her.
"Surprising?" she scoffed.
"I expected you to fold halfway through dessert."
"I've survived worse than designer snobs and fake smiles."
He tilted his head, considering her. "You're different tonight."
She turned to face him. "Different how?"
"Composed. Fierce. Like you're not afraid of any of this."
"Because I'm not," she said, voice steady. "Not of them. Not of you."
Their eyes locked—and something passed between them. Not attraction, not yet. But curiosity. Challenge.
"Careful, Elena," he said softly. "Confidence in my world can be mistaken for ambition. And ambition gets people hurt."
"I'm not here to climb your ladder, Damien. Just to survive your game."
He smiled faintly. "Spoken like a true survivor."
As the music drifted back out onto the terrace, Damien offered his hand again. "Come on. They're about to make a toast. And we're the centerpiece."
She placed her fingers in his.
His grip was warm. Firm. Controlling.
But she held her head high as they walked back into the fire, hand-in-hand.
Because no matter how dangerous this world became, Elena had already decided:
She wouldn't just play the role of Damien Cross's fiancée.
She would own it.