The camera's loved her.
Serena Langford stepped out of the sleek black limousine onto the crimson carpet with the poise of someone who'd been born in silk and raised in boardrooms. Every inch of her glittering silver gown hugged her tall frame in a way that whispered power rather than begged for attention. A diamond necklace—rare, antique, and entirely one-of-a-kind—rested against her collarbone, catching the light of the flashbulbs.
The photographers roared her name like a pack of hungry wolves. She offered them the barest curve of a smile, just enough to feed tomorrow's headlines without giving them anything too personal. That was her art—being accessible enough for the brand, untouchable enough for herself.
This was her night.
The Langford Paris Grand stood behind her, a towering blend of marble and glass that had taken three years and an obscene budget to complete. The project had been a gamble—every major paper in the industry had questioned whether a young CEO could carry the weight of an empire that had been built by her father over four decades.
She had.
The reporters clustered near the entrance shouted questions as she glided past.
"Miss Langford! Is it true you've secured exclusive contracts with Italian couture designers for the hotel?"
"Miss Langford! What do you say to the rumors Blackwood Resorts will open a rival property nearby?"
Her heels clicked in a steady rhythm on the carpet as she approached the podium set at the top of the entrance stairs. Serena ignored most of the questions, pausing only once to give a practiced response.
"The Langford Grand isn't just a hotel," she told the press, her voice smooth and precise. "It's an experience that blends tradition with innovation, a celebration of artistry, culture, and timeless luxury. Our guests won't just stay here—they'll remember it for the rest of their lives."
The applause was polite, even warm. A soft satisfaction bloomed in her chest.
She had fought for this.
From late nights negotiating with suppliers to convincing the board not to sell off the property mid-construction, she had carved this opening out of grit and calculation. Tonight was proof that she had stepped out from her father's shadow and claimed her place as a force in her own right.
The event coordinator, a slim man in a headset, approached her from the side and whispered, "We've had an unexpected arrival. Shall I—?"
Before she could ask, the master of ceremonies took the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to welcome not just our esteemed host, Miss Serena Langford, but also a distinguished guest—Mr. Damien Blackwood, CEO of Blackwood Luxury Resorts!"
The crowd murmured. Serena froze for a fraction of a second before turning her head.
He was walking up the carpet with that predatory ease that came from knowing exactly how good he looked in a tailored three-piece suit. Damien Blackwood—her most persistent rival—flashed the cameras a roguish smile, his black hair just slightly tousled as though he'd run his fingers through it moments before.
The gall of him.
They hadn't spoken in months, not since he'd outbid her on the coastal boutique property in Santorini. And now, of all nights, he chose to appear here? Uninvited?
Damien took the spare microphone from the MC, his voice carrying a deep, rich timbre that seemed to settle over the crowd.
"Congratulations, Serena," he began, his tone warm, though the glint in his eyes was anything but. "It's not every day we get to witness such… dedication to preserving the old ways."
Old ways. Serena's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the podium edge.
"I must admit," he continued, turning to the crowd, "while Blackwood Resorts favors bold, modern innovation, there's certainly a… quaint charm to the classics."
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience.
Serena forced her smile wider. "Some things are called 'classic' because they never go out of style, Mr. Blackwood. Just like certain business strategies—when they work, they work."
Damien's smile deepened, but his eyes sharpened like glass. "And yet," he said, "if one never changes with the times, one risks becoming… obsolete."
The air between them vibrated with the polite hostility of two fencers crossing blades.
The flashes from the photographers were nearly blinding now. Serena knew the images would be on every industry blog by midnight: the poised Ice Queen against the Blackwood Wolf, smiling like old friends while preparing to draw blood.
She stepped back from the podium, letting Damien give his little speech about "the evolving face of luxury travel." She didn't miss the way he kept sneaking glances at her, as though gauging how far he could push without crossing into outright insult.
When he finally stepped down, he leaned just slightly toward her as they passed, his breath warm against her ear.
"Nice dress," he murmured. "Try not to spill blood on it before dessert."
Her lips curved in a perfect, controlled smile. "Don't worry, Damien," she replied, her voice like champagne over ice. "I know exactly where to aim."
The cameras caught them in the same frame as they walked into the hotel side by side—an image that would ignite speculation across every business gossip column in Europe.
What the photos wouldn't capture was the rapid pulse in Serena's wrist, not from attraction—absolutely not—but from the knowledge that tonight, her opening gala had just become the opening move in a much larger game.
And she had no intention of losing.