Damien Blackwood had the kind of stage presence Serena hated—not because it was unpolished, but because it was perfect.
He stood before the glittering guests of the Langford Paris Grand, every inch the confident predator in a midnight-black suit, the faintest smirk curving his lips. It was infuriating how he could look like he'd just stepped out of a luxury watch advertisement without even trying.
Serena kept her champagne flute in hand, face serene, as Damien's voice carried across the crowd.
"Luxury," he began, "is not just about gold-leaf ceilings or vintage wine cellars. It's about innovation. Reinvention. It's about surprising the world with something new, not simply polishing what's already been done."
The implication was clear. He didn't need to say her name—half the audience was already sneaking glances at her.
The polite laughter that rippled through the room grated at her nerves. This was her opening night, her victory lap, and he was hijacking it with backhanded compliments.
Serena took a slow sip of champagne, letting the burn settle before setting the glass down and stepping forward.
"I couldn't agree more, Mr. Blackwood," she said, her voice smooth enough to cut steel. "But there's something to be said for tradition. Classics don't need reinvention—because they were perfected the first time. Much like a well-aged vintage… or a timeless empire."
A few murmurs and appreciative chuckles greeted her words. Damien inclined his head, as though conceding the point.
"True," he said, "but if wine sits too long in the bottle, it risks turning sour. The world moves forward, Serena. Those who don't adapt get left behind."
Serena's smile was pure elegance, but her mind was already working. She couldn't afford to let this turn into a petty public spat, not with every reporter in Paris watching. Instead, she decided to turn the conversation into her battlefield.
"That's the beauty of the Langford legacy, Damien," she said, moving closer so their words would carry less to the audience and more to him. "We adapt without forgetting our roots. We evolve without erasing what made us great. I'd hate to see you forget that lesson when your brand hits its inevitable midlife crisis."
His eyes glittered. "Concern for my brand? How touching."
"Just professional courtesy."
The crowd began to clap, misreading their exchange as charming banter between friendly rivals. The flash of cameras lit up like fireworks, capturing their poised standoff.
And then, a voice rang out from the crowd—a bold reporter from one of the lifestyle magazines.
"Miss Langford! Mr. Blackwood! Given the… tension between your brands, does this mean there's no chance of a partnership in the future?"
The air seemed to still. Serena opened her mouth to deliver a polite but firm no, but Damien beat her to it.
"I'd never say never," he said, his tone velvet over steel. "After all… business is a dance, and sometimes you find your best partner where you least expect it."
The room erupted in curious murmurs, journalists scribbling furiously.
Serena forced herself to remain calm, though her fingers itched to hurl her champagne in his face. "And sometimes," she said evenly, "you find your worst enemy wearing a charming smile."
Damien's smirk only deepened, like a man who enjoyed playing with fire.
The MC stepped in before the tension could sharpen further, ushering the guests toward the gala dinner. But the moment Serena stepped off the stage, her phone buzzed in her clutch.
Clarissa [Asst.]: Your father just called. Urgent. Meet him tonight.
Her gaze flicked toward Damien, who was shaking hands and accepting congratulations as though he owned the place. The timing was too strange.
And then she caught it—Damien glancing over at her with a look that said he already knew something she didn't.
----
The dinner that followed felt like walking a runway lined with knives.
Every guest Serena passed offered congratulations on the Langford Paris Grand, but the subtext was clear: We just saw Damien Blackwood outshine you at your own event.
She moved between tables with practiced grace, shaking hands with investors, exchanging pleasantries with dignitaries. The whole time, she kept one eye on Damien, who seemed to glide effortlessly through the room like a wolf among docile sheep.
At one point, their paths crossed again near the champagne fountain. Damien held out a glass. "To your opening," he said smoothly.
She took it, her expression unreadable. "Careful, Damien. One might think you're trying to play nice."
"Merely keeping things interesting." His gaze flicked briefly toward her phone peeking from her clutch. "I hope you'll answer that soon."
The comment jolted her. "What are you—"
But he was already gone, swept into another conversation as though he hadn't just hinted he knew something about her messages.
Her fingers itched to check her phone, but she forced herself to finish the evening, maintaining her flawless composure until the last photographer left. Only then, in the back of her limousine, did she tap the voicemail.
Her father's voice was calm but urgent:
"Serena. I need you to come to the estate tonight. There are… developments. And they concern Damien Blackwood."
A prickle ran down her spine. Her father was a man who never wasted words. If he said something was a development, it meant the ground under her feet was about to shift.
She looked out at the Paris streets flashing past the tinted windows. Damien's words echoed in her mind—I hope you'll answer that soon.
How had he known?
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Home, Miss Langford?"
"No." She straightened in her seat. "Langford estate. Now."
The limousine rolled through the night, the city lights casting fractured reflections across her gown. Serena's thoughts spun with possibilities, none of them pleasant.
If Damien had information before she did, it meant he had access—to her business, her family, maybe even her inner circle. That was unacceptable.
And yet… part of her couldn't shake the smallest, most infuriating thought: she'd never seen him so interested in something that wasn't purely business.