The car rolled to a stop in front of the Blackwood Foundation's headquarters, a gleaming tower that reflected the city lights like a jewel in the Manhattan skyline. Emma pressed her hands to the sides of her gown, trying to steady her shaking knees. Every nerve in her body screamed that she did not belong here—between the velvet ropes, the paparazzi lenses, and the sea of well-dressed strangers who seemed to know Damien personally.
Damien, of course, looked entirely at ease. His long fingers brushed against her waist as he guided her down the steps of the car. The tuxedoed security, who clearly had been briefed on every possible protocol for dealing with billionaire scandals, parted as if he were a walking royal decree. And Damien? He strolled as if this was his birthright.
"Remember," he murmured in that dangerously low voice, close enough for her to feel the heat of it, "smile. Hold hands. You know the drill."
Emma blinked. "I feel like we're in a hostage situation."
Damien's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. "You're my hostage, Mrs. Blackwood. Of course, you'd feel that way."
The red carpet unfurled before them like a river of fire. Camera flashes erupted, and the sound of shutters clicked rapidly, echoing against the glass facades. Reporters shouted greetings, questions, and occasionally ridiculous statements like, "Are you really marrying Mr. Blackwood for the money?"
Emma froze. She didn't know what to do first. Wave? Smile? Flee?
Damien gave her hand a reassuring squeeze—or perhaps a warning—and strode forward with confidence that only someone born into extreme wealth and entitlement could muster. He gave the reporters a charming, almost imperceptible nod.
Emma forced a smile, a weak, trembling thing that probably looked more like a grimace. The photographers roared. One of them shouted, "Mrs. Blackwood, what's it like to marry a billionaire overnight?"
Emma opened her mouth, but Damien answered smoothly before she could:
"She's adjusting," he said, voice calm and controlled, like he was addressing a board of investors. "It's been a whirlwind. I'm sure you'll all forgive her nerves."
Emma stared at him. "You—what—"
His lips quirked with amusement. "I handle the press. You handle looking like the most beautiful woman in the room. That's your only job."
Emma glanced down at her gown—scarlet silk hugging every curve, diamonds scattered along the neckline, and heels that elevated her posture beyond what felt remotely human. She'd expected the paparazzi to capture the worst of her hangover, hair slightly mussed, skin flushed with dehydration and panic. Instead, they were getting an image straight out of a fashion magazine.
She didn't like that. She hated that. She also hated that Damien knew exactly how to make it happen.
A few moments later, they were inside. The gala was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers spilled light across polished marble floors. Waiters glided past with silver trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres that looked more like abstract art than food. A live string quartet played in the corner, and wealthy socialites laughed, clinking glasses in that precise, practiced way that screamed money.
Emma's stomach turned. She didn't belong here. She didn't belong anywhere near this world of wealth, power, and effortless charm. She wanted to disappear into the shadows—or at least behind a chair.
Damien, of course, seemed entirely at home. He moved through the crowd with the precision of a predator, each step measured, each smile calculated. When he held her hand for the cameras, it was firm, possessive, but not overbearing—at least, not yet. But Emma could feel it. That quiet intensity, the kind that made her skin flush and her heartbeat stutter.
She let out a quiet groan.
"Do you always glare this much?" Damien murmured in her ear, low enough for only her to hear.
"I glare?" she hissed. "I think I'm surviving a nightmare while pretending it's a fairytale!"
He chuckled softly, brushing a thumb across the back of her hand. "You look beautiful when you panic."
Emma swore she heard her pulse in her ears. Why did he have to be so damn infuriatingly perfect?
The first person to approach them was a woman in a shimmering emerald gown, pearls around her neck, and an expression that suggested she could launch someone into bankruptcy with a single glare.
"Damien!" she said, embracing him with practiced warmth. "And you must be the infamous Mrs. Blackwood."
Emma blinked. Infamous?
Damien introduced her formally, keeping a polite, charming distance. Emma smiled stiffly, feeling like she was performing in some high-stakes theater production with zero rehearsal.
"I—I'm Emma," she stammered. "Carter. Emma Carter."
The woman tilted her head, her eyes scanning Emma as if she were a particularly interesting specimen. "A pleasure, truly. Damien has spoken… occasionally," she said, smirking at him, "about this little adventure of yours."
Emma's jaw dropped. "Adventure?!"
Damien merely offered a thin, unreadable smile, the kind that suggested he found everything amusing—including her flailing panic.
The woman laughed lightly. "Do enjoy it while it lasts, Mrs. Blackwood. High society doesn't take lightly to scandal—but Damien seems to have managed just fine."
Emma wanted to disappear behind the closest potted plant. Instead, she nodded, cheeks flaming.
Damien leaned down slightly, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Scandal is just opportunity in disguise."
She had no idea whether to punch him or kiss him. And she was pretty sure either option would get her escorted out.
The night moved forward in a blur. Champagne glasses refilled, cameras clicked incessantly, and Emma tried desperately to follow Damien's lead as he navigated conversations about mergers, charity endowments, and political donations.
Everywhere they went, he held her hand, guiding her, keeping her close. His thumb brushed against hers occasionally, leaving a trail of warmth that seemed almost impossible to ignore. She kept her expression polite, carefully neutral, and tried to remind herself: he's my husband for one year, a financial transaction disguised as romance. Nothing more.
But Damien seemed to enjoy bending that rule.
During a lull, he leaned close under the pretense of speaking above the music. "You're doing well," he murmured. "Impressive for a woman who was arguing with me about tequila less than twelve hours ago."
Emma rolled her eyes. "I still can't believe you married me for leverage."
His gray eyes caught hers, sharp, unyielding. "I don't just leverage people, Emma. I leverage opportunities. You—this night—us—you're an opportunity."
Her stomach flipped. "You're insane."
"Perhaps," he admitted with a faint smirk. "But effective."
A sudden flash of cameras made her flinch. Damien didn't let go of her hand, instead pulling her closer. "Don't flinch. Pose."
She groaned but did as instructed, arms locked at her sides, a practiced smile plastered on her lips. In that moment, as the world watched them, Emma realized something terrifying: she was learning to play this game. Slowly. Painfully. And Damien… Damien was the perfect teacher.
The night wasn't without its challenges. Several reporters approached, each attempting to pry into her personal life. Emma gave evasive answers, though not without glaring daggers at Damien when he injected dry humor that made the headlines even juicier.
One particularly aggressive journalist asked, "Mrs. Blackwood, what was going through your mind when you woke up married to one of the richest men in the country?"
Emma froze, panic rising. Damien's hand pressed lightly to her back, grounding her. "I—I…" she started.
Damien's voice, calm and commanding, cut through the noise. "She was considering how best to invest her new fortune. Real estate, stocks, perhaps a small tech startup."
Emma blinked at him, speechless. He just… turned my panic into sophistication.
The journalist blinked, slightly flustered. "Ah… yes. Of course."
Damien didn't even glance at her before smoothly moving away, leading her to the next cluster of socialites. Emma followed, trying not to feel like she was dancing on a tightrope suspended over a pit of fire.
Hours passed. Wine flowed, laughter echoed, cameras never stopped flashing. Every time Emma began to relax, Damien's touch, his gaze, his quiet whispers reminded her that she wasn't in control here. And she hated it. But strangely, hated was too weak a word. There was something thrilling, almost addictive about the danger, the power, the him.
At one point, she caught herself staring at the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hand lingered near hers, even when it wasn't necessary. She shoved the thoughts down. Money. One year. Ten million dollars. Nothing more.
But later, as they stepped onto the balcony for a brief respite, the city lights sprawled below like a blanket of diamonds, Damien leaned close, his voice barely audible over the gentle hum of traffic and distant laughter.
"You're good at this," he said. "Better than I expected."
Emma swallowed hard. "I'm good at surviving disasters."
His lips quirked. "This disaster seems to be enjoying itself."
Emma glared, but a shiver ran down her spine despite her stubborn resistance.
"And remember," he murmured, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath, "we have twelve months. Every day, every event, every glance… is part of the deal. But you can't deny that some things… feel a little… unplanned."
Emma's pulse jumped. She didn't answer. She didn't need to. And somehow, that silence spoke louder than any words ever could.
As they reentered the gala, the music swelled, cameras clicked, and Emma realized something terrifying: she was falling—not for the man, not yet—but for the intoxicating chaos that followed him.
Damien led her through the crowd, hand still tight in hers, a king with his queen, a predator with his willing prey. Emma's heart pounded with a dangerous rhythm. One year. Twelve months. Just survive. Just survive.
But deep down, buried beneath the panic and sarcasm, a spark had ignited—a spark she couldn't quite explain.
And Damien? He knew.
---To Be Continued---