The Cole estate transformed overnight. By the time the first guests arrived, the mansion looked less like a home and more like a cathedral carved from light. Chandeliers dripped crystal fire, violins bled through hidden speakers, and the scent of roses hung so thick it clung to Amara's skin.
She hovered near the edge of the ballroom, a clipboard clutched too tightly in her hand. Her rented gown - a deep emerald chosen by Vanessa's assistant - fit her like a costume. Beautiful, yes, but not hers. She smoothed the fabric nervously, scanning the sea of black ties and glittering gowns.
Clara would have laughed herself breathless if she could see her now. "My best friend, hobnobbing with billionaires. Don't trip, Amara."
Across the room, Damian was already surrounded. He wore the suit like armor, midnight black with a tie sharp enough to draw blood. The powerful flocked to him, their laughter polished, their words empty. But his eyes… they were somewhere else, scanning, searching.
Vanessa glided past Amara without sparing her a glance. Every move of hers was calculated elegance - the tilt of her wrist around a champagne flute, the way her smile lingered just long enough to sting. She was queen of the room, and she knew it.
Amara tried to focus on her task: checking names, smoothing logistics, and making sure the orchestra stayed on tempo. But the undercurrent was impossible to ignore. Every glance, every whispered aside seemed to anticipate the storm that hadn't yet broken.
Half an hour in, it happened.
The doors opened, and silence spilled like ink across the room. Conversations faltered, laughter choked.
She entered with the kind of grace money couldn't buy - poised, deliberate, devastating. A woman in her mid-thirties, draped in scarlet silk, dark hair falling in waves, eyes lined with defiance. She moved as though she belonged here, though the rigid smiles said otherwise.
Amara didn't know her, but Damian did. His expression tightened, the faintest crack in his polished mask. His glass stilled halfway to his lips.
Vanessa, on the other hand, smiled. Not warmly. Not kindly. A smile like gasoline meeting flame.
"Caroline," she purred, crossing the room to greet her.
Amara's heart skipped. Caroline. The name from the file. The name Damian had tried to erase.
The two women exchanged cheek kisses sharp enough to cut.
"You weren't on the list," Vanessa said sweetly.
"Funny," Caroline replied, voice cool as glass. "I was certain Damian wouldn't mind."
All eyes slid to him.
For the first time since Amara had met him, Damian Cole hesitated.
The night unraveled after that.
Caroline didn't hide in corners; she thrived in the spotlight. She spoke with senators, charmed investors, and laughed with board members who didn't dare reject her attention. And all the while, she watched Damian. Every word, every smile, was a weapon aimed at him.
Amara busied herself with the orchestra, the caterers, anything to distract her from the tension. But she couldn't stop watching either.
She saw the way Damian avoided Caroline, the way Vanessa seemed almost giddy at his discomfort. She saw how whispers spread like spilled wine, staining the atmosphere.
Finally, curiosity won. She caught Vanessa near the champagne table.
"Who is she?" Amara asked before she could think better of it.
Vanessa's eyes sparkled with cruel delight. "You don't know?"
Amara shook her head.
"She's the ghost," Vanessa whispered. "The one he tried to bury. Damian's fiancée."
Amara froze. The world tilted. "Fiancée?"
"Mm." Vanessa sipped her drink. "Well. Former, technically. But ghosts don't stay buried, darling. Not in this family."
The revelation burned in Amara's chest. Damian Cole, untouchable, unshakable, had once promised his future to Caroline - and for some reason, it had shattered. And now she was here, in his house, under Vanessa's protection.
She tried to steady her breath, but the room felt hotter, tighter. She spotted Damian near the balcony and slipped outside, desperate for air.
The night wrapped around her like velvet. The city glittered below, far away from the suffocating ballroom. She leaned against the railing, heart thundering.
"Overwhelming, isn't it?"
She was startled. Caroline stood beside her, a faint smile on her lips.
"Sorry, I didn't mean—" Amara began.
Caroline waved a hand. "Relax. You're not like them." Her gaze was piercing, almost knowing. "You don't wear their mask. That makes you dangerous."
Amara swallowed. "Dangerous?"
"To him." Caroline's eyes flicked toward the glass doors, where Damian lingered in the shadows, watching. "He's drawn to honesty. To things he can't control. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
Amara's breath caught. "I… I'm just his assistant."
Caroline laughed softly. "No one is just anything to Damian Cole. He doesn't allow it."
Before Amara could respond, Damian was there, stepping onto the balcony like a storm breaking through.
"Caroline," he said, his voice a warning.
She smiled. "Still protective. How sweet."
"Leave her out of this." His jaw tightened.
"Then maybe you should tell her the truth," Caroline whispered, eyes gleaming.
The air between them crackled, heavy with history Amara couldn't touch.
And for the first time, she realized the danger wasn't just whispers or politics. It was personal.
Deeply, dangerously personal.