The city skyline glittered against the glass walls of Damian Blackwood's penthouse, a ruthless reminder that she was no longer a woman who belonged to herself. Elena adjusted the strap of her gown nervously as she stared at her reflection in the tall mirror.
The silky fabric Damian's assistant had chosen for her clung to her body like a second skin—rich crimson, with a daring slit up her thigh that made her cheeks burn. Elena had always thought of herself as modest, preferring simple dresses, but Damian had insisted:
"If you're going to stand by my side, Elena, you'll do it as my wife. Not as some frightened little girl."
Her pulse quickened at the memory of his words, the cool authority in his voice. He had left her no room to argue.
And now, here she was, about to sit through a private dinner with the man she'd married for a contract—the Devil in a Suit, her husband in name only.
The heavy door creaked open. Damian stood there, dark and commanding in his tailored black suit. He didn't need a crown to look like a king; his presence was enough.
His gaze swept over her slowly, unapologetically, and Elena's breath caught. She could feel his eyes tracing every curve the gown revealed, every inch of skin exposed by the slit.
"Better," Damian murmured, his lips curving into a smirk. "Now you almost look like you belong to me."
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she straightened her spine. "I didn't dress for you," she whispered, though even she wasn't convinced.
One dark brow lifted. He stepped closer, invading her space, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
"No, Mrs. Blackwood. You dressed because I told you to."
Her heart slammed in her chest. The man was impossible—arrogant, cold, yet dangerously magnetic. And she hated the way her body betrayed her, trembling under the weight of his gaze.
Dinner was set in the grand dining room. A table long enough for ten had been prepared, but only two seats were occupied. Crystal glasses sparkled under the golden chandelier, and silverware gleamed against porcelain plates.
Elena's eyes widened at the feast laid before them—perfectly roasted lamb, golden potatoes, steamed vegetables drizzled with butter. She hadn't eaten this well in weeks.
Her stomach growled, and Damian's sharp gaze flicked toward her.
"Eat," he said simply, pouring wine into her glass.
She hesitated. "Are you always this… bossy?"
He leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand, and studied her like a puzzle he was in no rush to solve.
"Always," he said smoothly. "And you'll learn to live with it."
Her fingers tightened around the fork. "You make it sound like I'm your prisoner."
For the first time that evening, his lips curved into a full, dangerous smile.
"You're not my prisoner, Elena." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a husky whisper that made her shiver. "You're my wife. And that's far more binding."
The meal passed in tense silence. Elena tried to focus on her food, but Damian's presence was overwhelming. Every glance he cast her way made her palms sweat. Every brush of his hand when he passed her the bread sent sparks racing up her arm.
Finally, she couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Why me?" she asked softly.
His glass paused midway to his lips. "What do you mean?"
"Of all the women in this city, of all the women who would have killed to marry you… why me? Why trap me in this marriage?"
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Something unguarded. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the cold, unreadable mask he always wore.
"You were convenient," he said flatly.
Her chest tightened, the sting of his words sharper than she expected. Convenient. That's all she was to him.
She set down her fork, her appetite gone. "Then I suppose I should thank you for ruining my life out of convenience."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged. Damian's jaw tightened, and he set down his glass with a sharp clink.
"You think I ruined your life?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Elena's throat went dry. She wanted to shrink back, but her pride wouldn't allow it. "Didn't you?"
He stood suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. Before she could react, he was at her side, towering over her, one hand gripping the back of her chair. His nearness made her heart pound, but she refused to look away.
"Careful, Elena," he murmured, his face inches from hers. "You have no idea what ruin really looks like."
His scent—clean, masculine, intoxicating—wrapped around her. His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, she thought he might kiss her.
But then he straightened, stepping back with the controlled ease of a predator retreating into the shadows.
"Dinner's over," he said coldly. "Good night, Mrs. Blackwood."
And just like that, he was gone, leaving Elena trembling, confused, and more drawn to him than she dared admit.