The charity gala was in full swing, lights cascading like liquid gold across the high ceilings of the Edenworth Hotel. Laughter floated on the scent of perfume, champagne, and money. Zara had attended many such events in the past with her ex—where she was nothing more than a pretty placeholder. But tonight, she stood beside Damien Blackwood.
And people noticed.
She wore a fitted black gown with a slit that made some stare and others whisper. Damien, in a perfectly tailored suit, stood tall with one hand resting lightly on her waist. It was all show. A performance for the world. But Zara felt every glance, every judgment.
"Smile," Damien murmured, his breath warm at her ear.
"I am," she replied, even though her jaw felt stiff.
Cameras flashed. Flutes clinked. And then… silence, as someone stepped into their circle.
"Zara, isn't it?" Celine.
The woman had a gift for theatrics she wore a blood-red dress and a smirk that rivaled the devil's.
Zara turned, her posture calm. "Celine."
Celine's eyes drifted to Damien. "You've upgraded your taste, Damien. Impressive."
Zara didn't wait for a cue. "That's funny. From what I hear, you were the expired item on the shelf."
The silence that followed was thunderous.
Damien's lip twitched—approval, maybe.
But Celine? She simply smiled wider.
"Careful, dear," she said sweetly. "Shiny things lose their polish quickly in this world. Especially when they don't belong."
Zara tilted her head. "Well, good thing I came with my own shine."
With that, she slipped her hand into Damien's and walked away, leaving gasps and murmurs in their wake.
***
Later, in the corridor leading to the private lounge, Zara pressed her hand to her chest. The adrenaline from the encounter had begun to settle, leaving her lightheaded.
"Breathe," Damien said, appearing beside her.
She looked up at him. "She wants to embarrass me."
"She wants to unravel you."
"Why?" she asked. "What does she gain?"
Damien's face hardened. "Control. Power. She's always needed to be the one in charge. And I stopped letting her be."
Zara turned her body to face him. "Then you made an enemy."
"I've made dozens."
"You could warn a girl next time."
Damien looked at her really looked. "You didn't need warning. You held your ground."
Zara shrugged, but the praise settled in her chest like warmth.
"Still," Damien added, "keep your guard up. She doesn't fight fair."
***
By the time they got home, Zara kicked off her heels and threw herself on the couch.
Damien loosened his tie and poured two glasses of whiskey.
"You drink now?" she asked, accepting the glass.
"I drink when I need to remind myself I'm alive."
She sipped. "That's poetic and very unhealthy."
He chuckled a rare, low sound that made her glance up. "What?"
"You smiled," she said.
He leaned against the counter. "You did too. Tonight."
"I guess," she said softly. "It felt good… not being a puppet."
Damien's expression shifted just slightly. "You're not a puppet. Not to me."
Zara stood slowly, walking over. "Then what am I to you, Damien?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her. As if he didn't have the words.
So Zara stepped closer. "Tell me."
Still, silence.
And then, he reached up, gently brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers.
"You're the only thing I haven't figured out."
Zara's heart stuttered.
She didn't kiss him. She could've. He didn't kiss her either. But something passed between them in that stillness like a thread weaving tighter.
A promise neither of them dared speak.