Morning arrived with the taste of steel in the air. The city outside Damian's penthouse buzzed like a hive—horns blaring, voices rising, the hum of a world that never slept.
Elara stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her palms pressed against the cold glass. Below her, the streets writhed with life. Up here, though, silence reigned, broken only by the soft click of polished shoes behind her.
"Get dressed," Damian said.
Her spine stiffened. "For what?"
"You're coming with me."
She turned, her pulse quickening. "Where?"
He didn't answer. He simply laid a black dress on the bed—silk, elegant, sleeveless, the kind of thing that belonged in photographs of women who never feared the dark.
Her throat tightened. "I'm not—"
"You are," he cut in smoothly, his gaze sharp as a blade. "Refuse, and I'll drag you there in chains. The choice is yours."
The word chains struck something primal inside her. Fear. Heat. Confusion.
Half an hour later, she found herself seated in the back of a sleek black car, Damian beside her. The city blurred past, neon signs bleeding into morning haze. He said nothing, his silence heavier than any threat.
When the car stopped, Elara's breath caught.
The building before her rose like a fortress—stone and glass, guarded by men in tailored suits with eyes like predators. Damian stepped out first, offering his hand. She ignored it, but followed.
Inside, the world changed.
Crystal chandeliers spilled light across marble floors. People dressed in power and wealth moved like dancers through the vast hall, their laughter edged with something feral. This wasn't a party. It was a display.
Damian's grip on her elbow tightened as whispers rose. Heads turned. Men watched with calculation. Women studied her with venom.
Elara's stomach twisted. She didn't belong here. She was prey walking into the lion's den.
A man with salt-and-pepper hair approached, his smile too wide. "You must be Damian's latest."
Elara flinched. Damian's hand slid to the small of her back, possessive, warning. "Careful, Victor," he murmured, voice laced with silk and steel. "She's mine."
The word mine sank into her skin like a brand.
Throughout the night, Elara watched deals being struck in coded words, laughter masking threats, hands shaking while knives hid beneath the table. It was a masquerade without masks—danger dressed in diamonds.
Damian introduced her to no one. He kept her by his side, a silent ornament, a shadow that breathed. Yet she could feel eyes following her, hungry, assessing.
At one point, she slipped toward the balcony, desperate for air. The city stretched endlessly below, glittering and cruel.
"Breathtaking, isn't it?"
She turned sharply. A woman stood there—red lips, black gown, eyes sharp as daggers. "I'm Selene," she purred. "You must be the reason Damian is distracted these days."
Elara's pulse raced. Distracted? From what?
Before she could answer, Damian appeared. His arm coiled around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His tone was calm, but his grip bruised. "Walk away, Selene."
The woman's laugh was soft, mocking, dangerous. "Careful, Damian. She looks fragile. And fragile things break so easily."
As Selene vanished into the crowd, Elara shivered.
Damian's lips brushed her ear. "This is the world you ran into, little dove. Now tell me—are you strong enough to survive it?"
Her breath trembled. She didn't know the answer.
But the hunger in his voice told her he intended to find out.