The ballroom glittered like a dream painted in gold. Crystal chandeliers spilled light across polished marble, silk gowns whispered against the floor, and violins sang a melody that felt far too delicate for the brutality lurking beneath the surface.
Elara stood at Damian's side, her hand in his, her black gown clinging to her like a second skin. Every head turned when they entered. Not because of her—but because of him. Damian controlled the air in the room the way a storm claimed the sky.
She hated how easily she fell into his shadow, how natural it felt to walk two steps behind him.
"Smile," he murmured without looking at her.
Her lips curved, fragile and false.
They moved through the crowd, whispers trailing in their wake. Some were in awe, some in fear, but all of them acknowledged the same truth: Damian Morello was not a man. He was a kingdom in human form, and kingdoms devoured.
At their table, crystal glasses gleamed, and eyes followed them still. Damian leaned close, his hand brushing her lower back, the touch as intimate as it was possessive. "Tonight, little dove, you'll show them who you belong to."
Her stomach coiled. "And if I refuse?"
His lips ghosted over her ear, his smile a predator's curve. "Then I'll make you prove it another way. Right here. In front of them all."
The violins swelled. Elara forced another smile, though her pulse raced like a trapped bird.
A man approached their table—tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar along his jaw. His eyes flickered briefly to Elara, sharp and assessing, before settling on Damian. "Morello," he greeted, his tone respectful but edged.
Damian extended a hand, his smirk faint. "Mr. Voss. You've brought your curiosity, I see."
Voss's gaze slid back to Elara, lingering a second too long. "And you've brought… her."
Elara's chest tightened. She didn't like the way he said it, like she was a commodity being measured and weighed.
Damian's hand tightened on hers beneath the table, iron beneath silk. "Her name," he said coolly, "is Elara. And she isn't mine because I chose her. She's mine because she chose me."
Her heart stumbled. The lie wrapped around her throat, burning. Every eye at the table turned to her.
Damian didn't look at her, but his grip on her hand was unrelenting, a silent command: Say it.
Elara's lips parted. The room blurred, faces watching, waiting, her body trembling under the weight of expectation. Damian's thumb brushed slow circles against her palm, deceptively tender.
"Yes," she whispered finally, her voice breaking but audible. "I chose him."
The words fell like chains snapping shut.
Voss raised a brow, but his smile was tight, skeptical. "Then you're braver than most."
Damian's smirk deepened, victory glinting in his eyes. He lifted Elara's hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, deliberate, possessive, sealing her lie in front of the entire room.
The violins played on, sweet and cruel.
As the conversation shifted back to politics and power, Elara sat in silence, her heart pounding. She could still feel Voss's gaze flicker toward her now and then, as though he saw the fracture in her mask. As though he knew the truth.
And maybe he did.
Damian leaned back in his chair, his hand never leaving hers. He didn't need to look at her; she already felt his victory in every inch of her body. He had forced her to claim him, to wrap her own chains tighter in front of witnesses.
Her throat tightened with a thought she could not shake:
In this ballroom of light and luxury, she had never felt darker.