The invitation wasn't optional. Damian's assistant handed Elena the ivory envelope like a summons, his clipped tone bringing no refusal.
"Mr. Voss will pick you up at seven. Black tie. Don't be late."
Elena stared at the embossed script—charity gala at the Belmont Hotel. She hadn't agreed to be paraded around like his trophy. And yet the breadcrumb note—Marcus is not gone—burned at the back of her mind.
If this was another of Damian's power games, maybe she could use it to find answers.
Still, fury smoldered under her skin. She had come here for her job, not to be dressed up as an accessory for a man who believed control was a form of seduction.
By seven, she was in front of the penthouse mirror, tugging at the midnight gown that had arrived hours earlier. The fabric hugged her curves like it had been made for her. The reflection staring back wasn't the woman she knew—she looked like someone who belonged at his side.
When Damian appeared, his tuxedo sharp enough to cut, her pulse betrayed her. His gaze swept over her slowly, deliberately, lingering in ways that left her skin heated.
"You clean up well," he said, his voice lower than she expected, like the words cost him something.
"I didn't ask for this," she snapped, clutching her clutch like a shield.
"No," he agreed. His eyes flickered, unreadable. "But you'll play your part anyway."
Before she could retort, he extended his arm. Command lay in the gesture. She hesitated, instinct screaming to resist—but the thought of Hale's name buried in those files shoved her forward. She placed her hand on his arm, hating the way her body thrilled at the solid warmth beneath her palm.
The Belmont glittered with chandeliers and false laughter. Politicians, moguls, socialites—all masks, all theater. Elena tried to hold her head high, but curious eyes followed her, whispers floating through the air.
Who is she? He never brings anyone. She must be important.
The weight of their stares pressed down on her until she wanted to vanish.
Damian leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. "Relax, Elena. You're safe with me."
Safe. The word coiled inside her chest like smoke. Safe with the man who might have destroyed Hale's life?
She seized a champagne flute from a passing tray, more armor than drink. Her eyes swept the crowd, searching for threats—or answers.
And then one found her.
"Voss."
A man in a silver-gray suit approached, his smile sharp as glass. Victor Roth.
"Elena, meet Victor Roth," Damian said smoothly. "Victor, Elena Cross."
Roth's eyes slid over her with surgical precision, then back to Damian. "You've finally decided to accessorize. She's lovely."
Elena stiffened, fury spiking, but Damian's hand pressed into her waist—a warning.
Roth's smile widened. "Tell me, does she know what happened to Marcus Hale? Or is that one of your secrets too dangerous to share?"
The world tilted. Elena's breath caught, her pulse racing. Roth knew.
Damian's expression didn't shift, but his voice dropped to a blade's edge. "Careful, Victor."
"Always," Roth purred, raising his glass before slipping back into the crowd.
Elena spun on Damian, her fury boiling. "What was that?"
"Noise," he said curtly, steering her toward the dance floor.
"He knows about Hale. He knows I'm—"
"Not here," Damian cut her off, his gaze silencing her more than his words.
Before she could argue, the music swelled. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her into the glow of the chandelier.
The dance floor shimmered, golden and romantic, even as her chest stormed. His hand pressed against her back, his other clasping hers with firm control. Every step forced her closer, every turn tangled her resistance with heat she didn't want to feel.
"This is insane," she whispered, her voice trembling.
His mouth curved—not in amusement, but in hunger restrained. "That's the point."
"You brought me here as bait," she accused.
His grip tightened, his breath brushing her temple. "I brought you because they underestimate you when you're with me. That gives us an advantage."
Us. The word jolted through her. She wanted to dismiss it—but she wanted, foolishly, recklessly, to believe it.
The music spun them beneath the chandelier, her pulse matching the rhythm. His gaze burned into her, dangerous and magnetic. For one reckless heartbeat, she let herself fall into it.
And then—
Pop.
Another.
Screams shattered the illusion. Guests scattered, chandeliers rattling, glass crashing.
Gunfire.
Damian's arm clamped around her waist, dragging her down as chaos erupted. His body covered hers, shielding her as bullets tore through the ballroom.
Elena's heart pounded in her throat, terror clawing at her lungs. But even as fear consumed her, one thought cut through like lightning:
Damian hadn't looked surprised.
He had expected this.
And he had brought her anyway.