The city glittered that night, a thousand lights winking against the velvet sky. Outside the grand hotel, luxury cars lined the curb like a parade of wealth, each one delivering its offering to the annual Veyra Foundation Gala.
Inside, chandeliers blazed overhead, casting golden halos across marble floors and silk gowns. Laughter tinkled like crystal, and the hum of money and power filled the air.
Adriana Veyra was the axis around which it all spun.
She stood at the top of the staircase, her gown a masterpiece of midnight satin that clung like shadows and spilled like starlight. A diamond necklace glimmered at her throat, catching every flash of the cameras below. But it was not the jewels that silenced the room when she appeared it was her.
She did not smile. She did not need to. Her very presence commanded the night.
Damian Hale adjusted his cufflinks from the corner of the room, jaw tight. He had told himself he wouldn't come. He had sworn to stay away from her orbit. But like gravity itself, she pulled him in.
You're a fool, he told himself as he sipped his drink. But if you're going to be a fool, at least be one on your own terms.
The crowd parted for her as she descended, each step a reminder that the gala was hers. Adriana accepted greetings with a nod, spoke to senators with poise, and dismissed billionaires with a flick of her wrist. She was untouchable.
Until she saw him.
Her steps slowed, just barely, when her gaze landed on Damian leaning against a marble pillar, his dark suit sharp as sin. He raised his glass in silent salute, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips.
For the briefest flicker, something unreadable crossed her eyes. Then she looked away, moving toward the stage.
Damian's blood heated. She could ignore him in the boardroom, she could cut him with words and contracts but tonight? Tonight, he would not be ignored.
The gala unfolded with speeches and music, but Damian's attention never strayed from her. Every laugh she gave, every tilt of her head, every man who dared step too close it all scraped at his nerves until he thought he might snap.
When the auction began, he saw his chance.
Adriana herself stepped onto the stage to present the highlight of the night: a rare painting, the proceeds destined for charity. Applause thundered as she took the microphone, her voice smooth, commanding, flawless.
"Bidding will begin at one hundred thousand," she announced.
"Two hundred," someone called.
"Three."
"Five."
The numbers climbed quickly, the room buzzing with excitement.
Then Damian's voice cut through, low and firm. "One million."
A hush fell. All eyes turned. Adriana's head snapped toward him, her composure cracking for a heartbeat.
"One million," the auctioneer repeated, startled. "Do I hear one-point-two?"
Silence. No one dared challenge the reckless bid.
Adriana's eyes narrowed. She recovered her calm, but her grip on the microphone tightened. "Sold."
Damian smirked as the gavel fell. The painting was nothing to him. The point had been made.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and the orchestra played softer tunes, Adriana found him on the terrace, the city sprawling behind him in lights and shadows.
"You think this is a game?" she asked, voice sharp as glass.
Damian turned, a glass of champagne dangling from his hand. "Everything is a game, Adriana. The question is are you winning?"
Her heels clicked against the stone as she stepped closer. "You humiliated me on my stage."
He leaned against the railing, unbothered. "No. I reminded you that you don't control everything."
Her laugh was cold. "You spent a million dollars for a reminder?"
He shrugged. "What's money compared to seeing your mask crack, even for a second?"
Her eyes flashed. "Careful, Mr. Hale. You're standing on a cliff's edge."
"And you," he murmured, stepping closer until only inches separated them, "are daring me to jump."
For a moment, the world disappeared the music inside, the city below, the night itself. There was only her perfume, her dark eyes, the heat sparking between them like static before a storm.
His hand lifted, brushing a stray curl from her shoulder. She didn't flinch, but she didn't stop him either.
"You hate me," he said softly.
Her lips curved, dangerous. "I don't waste emotions on you."
"Then why are you still here?"
Silence stretched. Her breath hitched the faintest fraction.
And then she stepped back, cutting the tension like a blade.
"You're not worth my time," she said, her mask snapping back into place. "Enjoy your painting, Mr. Hale."
She turned, gown whispering against the stone, leaving him with nothing but the ghost of her heat.
Damian's jaw clenched. Fury and desire warred inside him, each more poisonous than the last. He should walk away. He should let her win.
But he knew one thing with dangerous certainty: he couldn't.
He would chase her. Break her walls. Drag her down from her throne if he had to.
Even if it destroyed them both.