The Grand Horizon Hotel sparkled with opulence. Beneath crystal chandeliers, the city's elite mingled in gowns and tuxedos worth more than Amara Blake could earn in a lifetime. Waiters drifted like shadows, their trays gliding effortlessly through the crowd.
Amara clutched her own tray tightly, the stemmed glasses trembling as her palms sweated against the silver. She hated working such events, but she had no choice. Rent was due, her mother's prescriptions were piling up, and her younger sister was still in school. Survival left no room for pride.
She kept her head low, weaving between guests who did not bother to notice her. Invisible was good. Invisible meant no mistakes.
But invisible never lasted long.
A careless socialite stumbled backward, colliding with Amara. The tray tilted. Her balance slipped.
The sound of glass shattering against marble silenced the music. Crimson wine bled across the polished floor. Dozens of eyes turned. Heat burned her face as whispers slithered around the room.
Then came the voice. Deep. Cold. Authoritative.
"You owe me ten thousand dollars."
Amara froze. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
He stood before her. Damian Cross.
Everyone in the city knew his name. The billionaire who crushed rivals with a single decision. The man whispered about in both admiration and fear.
His silver-gray eyes locked on her, sharp and calculating, as if she were a puzzle he could solve in an instant.
"I—I'm sorry," Amara stammered. She bent quickly, gathering shards with trembling hands. A sharp edge sliced her finger, and a drop of blood stained the floor. "I'll pay for it. I swear."
Damian's lips curved, though the expression was anything but kind. "With what? Your monthly wage would not replace a single glass."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Amara's humiliation deepened, tears pricking her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"Your name," Damian said suddenly.
She hesitated, her voice nearly breaking. "Amara."
He repeated it softly, as though testing its weight. Then he bent slightly, his words low enough for her alone.
"People who cross me never get second chances. Remember that."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She lowered her eyes, but her world had already shifted.
She did not know it yet, but her life would never belong solely to her again.
Amara fled the ballroom as soon as her shift ended, heart still pounding. The laughter, the humiliation, and above all, the way Damian Cross had looked at her haunted her steps.
She told herself it was nothing. A powerful man would forget a poor waitress in hours. That was how the world worked.
But fate was not so merciful.
Outside, the night air bit against her flushed cheeks. She hurried down the quiet street when a black car pulled up beside her. The tinted window lowered, revealing the same silver eyes that had unnerved her.
Damian Cross.
Amara froze.
"Get in," he said simply.
Her chest tightened. "I, I can't. I need to go home."
"Do you always disobey orders?" His tone was not raised, but the steel beneath it made her shiver.
"I'm not one of your employees," she whispered.
He studied her, an unreadable expression on his face. Then, with the faintest smirk, he said, "Not yet."
The window rolled up. The car disappeared into the night, leaving Amara shaken.
She wrapped her arms around herself. That man was danger incarnate. And yet, deep within her chest, something far more dangerous stirred.
Days passed, yet Damian's presence clung to Amara like a shadow. She avoided the hotel, working odd shifts elsewhere. But one evening, her manager called her in urgently. The hotel was short-staffed, and she needed the money.
She thought she could slip through unnoticed. She was wrong.
Damian was there. He saw her. And once again, she found herself standing before him, trapped by the weight of his gaze.
This time, he did not scold her. He offered her a drink, a challenge glittering in his eyes as if daring her to refuse.
"You think I frighten you," he murmured, when she hesitated. "But what frightens you more is how drawn you are to me."
Her heart raced. She wanted to deny it, but words failed her.
One night. That was all it took. One night that neither of them could erase.
And by morning… Amara was gone.
The bustling supermarket was a far cry from the glittering ballrooms of the city's elite. Amara stood in line with her cart, her faded dress clinging to her frame. She no longer wore the crisp uniform of a hotel waitress. She was simply a mother trying to make ends meet.
"Mommy! Look!"
Her son's voice rang out, bright and sweet. Ethan held up a toy car, his silver-gray eyes shining.
The same eyes Amara had tried so hard to forget.
She forced a smile. "Put it back, Ethan. Not today."
He pouted but obeyed, his tiny fingers curling around hers as they walked together.
Her life was simple, but it was enough. As long as Damian Cross never discovered Ethan, she could keep her fragile world safe.
Or so she believed.
Amara reached for a box of cereal when a shadow fell over her. She froze. Slowly, she turned.
Her heart stopped.
Damian Cross stood there, as flawless and intimidating as the night she had last seen him. Three years had not softened him. If anything, time had sharpened his edges.
His gaze moved from Amara to Ethan, who clutched the hem of her dress and stared up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
Damian's expression hardened. The resemblance was undeniable.
"Interesting," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "Care to explain why this child looks exactly like me?"
Amara's breath caught. Her secret, the one she had guarded for three long years, was no longer safe.