Elara should've known something was off when Damien appeared at her desk with that unreadable expression he wore whenever he was about to ruin her day.
"You're coming with me tonight," he said flatly, as though he were announcing the weather.
She blinked up at him. "Sorry, what?"
"The Montclair Children's Foundation Gala," he clarified. "Starts at eight."
Her mouth dropped open. "You mean… like… with you?"
"Yes, Hart," he replied dryly. "I don't usually take my stapler as a date."
She sputtered. "I—I can't! I don't have anything to wear, and besides, aren't these events strictly 'billionaire and his model girlfriend' territory?"
Damien's mouth curved into the faintest smirk. "You'll manage. A car will pick you up at seven. Don't be late."
And just like that, he walked away, leaving Elara staring after him like he'd just casually told her she was going to be the next Queen of England.
---
At 6:59, Elara was still yanking at the zipper of a borrowed evening gown her roommate had insisted she wear. It was a slinky emerald green number that hugged her curves in ways she wasn't entirely sure were legal. Her hair was swept into soft curls, her heels were too high for her sanity, and she looked nothing like the girl who usually spilled coffee on herself before nine a.m.
When the black car pulled up outside her apartment, she nearly chickened out.
But then she remembered Damien's voice: Don't be late.
And apparently, her survival instinct now included obeying Kane's commands.
---
The gala was a swirl of glittering chandeliers, champagne flutes, and people dripping in diamonds. Elara stepped out of the car, nearly tripping on her dress, only to find Damien waiting by the entrance.
And—holy hell—he was in a tuxedo.
If she thought he was dangerous in suits, in a black tux with the bow tie perfectly knotted, he was lethal.
Damien's eyes swept over her slowly, deliberately. For once, his poker face cracked, just barely.
"You clean up well," he murmured.
Her cheeks flamed. "Uh… thanks. You don't look too terrible yourself."
One corner of his mouth twitched, as if fighting a smile. Then, before she could process it, his hand slid to the small of her back, guiding her inside like she belonged at his side.
Inside, the ballroom buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses. Billionaires and socialites mingled like predators in designer clothing.
Elara tried not to gape at the sheer opulence. "This is insane. That chandelier probably costs more than my entire apartment building."
Damien leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. "Don't stare too hard, Hart. They'll eat you alive if they think you're impressed."
"Noted," she muttered, forcing her face into what she hoped was a blasé expression.
But every time someone approached Damien — business associates, investors, ambitious heiresses with glittering smiles — his hand never left her back. Subtle, steady, almost possessive.
She lost count of the number of people who gave her curious once-overs, trying to place her. Was she a girlfriend? A fling? Just his assistant?
By the third champagne flute, Elara was ready to crawl under the table.
"Relax," Damien said smoothly when she whispered as much. "You're doing fine."
She shot him a look. "Easy for you to say. You grew up in this world. I'm just hoping I don't accidentally use the wrong fork and cause a scandal."
"Don't worry," he said, his mouth curving into something dangerously close to a smile. "If you embarrass yourself, I'll fire you before the tabloids find out."
"Wow. Comforting."
He chuckled, low and rich, and she felt it all the way to her toes.
---
Later in the evening, a string quartet began playing, and couples drifted onto the dance floor.
Elara was mid-bite of some ridiculously tiny hors d'oeuvre when Damien held out his hand.
Her eyes widened. "Oh, no. I don't dance."
"You do tonight," he said firmly.
Before she could protest, his hand closed around hers, warm and steady, and he pulled her onto the floor.
The music was soft, sweeping. Damien's hand settled on her waist, guiding her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing.
Elara tried not to panic. "If I step on your foot, consider it payback for every time you've called me incompetent."
He arched a brow. "You've been planning revenge dances?"
"Maybe."
"Careful, Hart. I might start to enjoy them."
Her laugh caught in her throat when his gaze locked onto hers, intense and unflinching. For a moment, the glittering crowd disappeared. It was just the two of them, swaying to music that neither of them seemed to hear.
Heat coiled low in her stomach. The way his thumb brushed against the fabric of her dress. The way his jaw tightened as if he were holding something back.
Her lips parted, breathless. The air between them crackled, sharp and dangerous.
For one suspended second, it felt inevitable.
He was going to kiss her.
And then—applause broke out as the music ended, shattering the moment.
Damien released her instantly, his expression snapping back into cool control.
"Time to go," he said, as if nothing had happened.
But Elara's heart was still racing as he guided her out of the ballroom, his hand once again warm against the small of her back.