The rain fell in heavy sheets against the glittering walls of the Blackwood Empire Hotel. From the outside, the skyscraper looked like a glass fortress, its steel crown piercing through the storm. Inside, the ballroom glowed with chandeliers, a thousand crystals catching light like diamonds scattered across the night. Music floated in the air—violins, elegant and sharp, blending with the low hum of conversations spoken over champagne flutes and expensive laughter.
Amara Collins stood in the corner, clutching her tray so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her uniform was simple—black skirt, crisp white blouse, and an apron tied too tight around her waist. She had pinned her brown hair back into a neat bun, but loose strands had escaped, framing her face. No matter how hard she tried to look put together, she felt like a shadow among stars.
The guests sparkled in gowns worth more than her yearly income. Diamonds glittered at wrists and throats. Shoes clicked against the marble floor. The air smelled of roses, cigars, and power. Amara's breath caught as she scanned the crowd, praying she wouldn't drop anything, praying she would make it through her shift without embarrassing herself.
"Table six," her supervisor hissed, shoving her gently toward a cluster of men in tuxedos. "Keep your eyes down. Smile if you must, but don't draw attention. And for God's sake, don't spill anything."
Amara nodded quickly, her palms slick with sweat. She adjusted the tray and stepped forward, weaving between gowns and sharp suits.
Then she saw him.
Damian Blackwood.
The Damian Blackwood.
He was exactly as the magazines had described him—tall, broad-shouldered, with an aura so commanding that it made the air shift when he moved. His dark hair was swept back, his jaw sharp as though carved from stone, his suit tailored to perfection. He wasn't laughing with the men beside him. He didn't need to. His silence carried more weight than their empty words.
Amara's breath caught when his gaze lifted.
Steel-gray eyes. Piercing. Cold. Alive in a way that made her knees weak. For one reckless moment, she froze, caught in the force of his attention.
Then the tray slipped.
Time slowed. Crystal glasses toppled, liquid spilling like liquid gold across black silk. The crash echoed like thunder through the ballroom. Gasps rose around her. Amara's heart stopped as champagne drenched Damian Blackwood's immaculate suit.
"Oh no," she whispered, dropping to her knees, desperately grabbing napkins from a nearby table. "I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't mean—"
Silence.
A silence so sharp it cut through the hum of the gala. Amara's trembling hands mopped at the mess, but her efforts felt pathetic against the weight of eyes burning into her back.
Then his voice. Low. Deep. Dangerous.
"Stand up."
She froze. The command wrapped around her like chains. Slowly, she rose, her head bowed, cheeks burning.
"Look at me."
Her chest tightened. She lifted her eyes.
Damian Blackwood was staring at her, not with anger—but with something worse. Interest.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her lips trembled. "A-Amara. Amara Collins."
He repeated it, his voice curling around the syllables like smoke. "Amara Collins."
The way he said it made her knees weak. He should have been furious. She had embarrassed him in front of the city's elite. But instead of rage, there was something else flickering in his gaze—something unreadable.
Before she could breathe, his assistant rushed forward with napkins, apologizing, fussing, trying to salvage the moment. But Damian barely moved. His gaze never left her.
"Follow me," he said simply.
Amara's breath caught. Her heart hammered. "Sir, I—I didn't mean—"
"Follow me."
It wasn't a request. It was an order.
Her tray slipped back into her supervisor's hands as if pulled away by invisible force. Her feet moved against her will, carrying her after him through the ballroom, past curious stares and whispers. Her chest rose and fell with panic. She shouldn't be doing this. She should run. But her body betrayed her, each step heavier than the last.
Damian pushed open a side door, leading into a quiet hallway lined with marble and gold. The music of the gala faded behind them, replaced by the faint hum of the storm outside.
He stopped suddenly, turning to face her.
Up close, he was more dangerous than she imagined. His presence filled the space, overwhelming, suffocating. His suit clung perfectly to his powerful frame. His scent—dark, musky, expensive—wrapped around her.
"You don't belong here," he said at last, his voice sharp, cutting.
The words sliced her open. She dropped her gaze. "I know."
"Then why are you here?"
Her throat tightened. "Because I need the money. My family—"
He tilted his head, watching her. "Your family?"
Amara's lips pressed into a thin line. She shouldn't have said that.
"Interesting," Damian murmured.
Her heart pounded. "I didn't mean to spill the drinks, I swear. Please don't—don't fire me. I need this job."
He stepped closer, his shadow consuming her. She pressed back against the wall, her breath shallow.
"I don't care about spilled champagne," Damian said softly, dangerously. "But you… You've caught my attention."
Her breath hitched. "I don't understand."
"Good." His eyes glinted like steel under firelight. "Confusion keeps things interesting."
Her pulse raced. His presence was overwhelming, too much. She wanted to run, but his gaze pinned her in place.
"You've made a mess tonight," Damian said, leaning close, his voice brushing her ear. "Now I wonder… how will you clean it up?"
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She couldn't think. Couldn't move. His nearness was intoxicating, terrifying.
Then—footsteps echoed down the hall. Voices approached.
Damian straightened instantly, his mask snapping back into place. Cold. Untouchable.
"Go," he ordered.
Her chest tightened. "But—"
"Go, Amara." His voice was steel. "Before I change my mind."
Her legs obeyed before her brain could argue. She fled, stumbling back through the door into the glow of the ballroom, heart racing like thunder.
She didn't know what had just happened. She only knew one thing—
This night was far from over.