Elara had been proud of herself.
For nearly two weeks, she'd stuck to her rules. Professional. Polished. No late nights, no stolen glances, no falling back into the pull of Damien Kane's gravity.
Until the charity auction.
Of course it had to be black tie. Of course Damien insisted she attend. And of course the dress she borrowed from her roommate was fire-engine red, hugging every curve like a promise she never intended to keep.
The moment she stepped into the ballroom, Damien's gaze locked on her. The crowd, the noise, the clinking of champagne flutes—all of it faded under the weight of his stare.
"Miss Hart," he said when she reached him, his voice rougher than usual. His eyes swept her from head to toe, lingering. "You're distracting."
She lifted her chin, refusing to let her knees turn liquid. "Then stop looking."
"Not possible."
Her heart stuttered, but she forced herself to smile tightly at the passing board members. "Remember your own rule, Mr. Kane. Business, not pleasure."
But Damien Kane wasn't a man who played by rules.
---
Hours later, the event had thinned. The silent auction closed, the orchestra packed up, and the glittering guests slipped away into the night.
Elara had lingered too long, finishing paperwork for the donations in a quiet back corridor. When she finally turned to leave, Damien was there, leaning against the wall as though he'd been waiting.
"You should have let me take you home earlier," he murmured.
She stiffened. "I told you, I can handle myself."
He stepped closer, the dim light catching in his eyes. "I don't want you to handle yourself. I want to handle you."
Her breath caught. "Damien—"
And then he kissed her.
Not like the hotel—hot and frantic—but slow, devastating, a claim pressed against her mouth. She gasped, hands braced against his chest, but her body betrayed her. She kissed him back. Hard. Hungry.
"Say it," he whispered against her lips. "Say you don't want me, and I'll stop."
But the words wouldn't come. Instead, she dragged him closer, fingers fisting in his jacket.
That's when it happened.
The flash.
Bright. Unforgiving.
Elara jerked back, her stomach plunging as voices echoed down the corridor. Paparazzi. Somehow, they'd slipped past security.
"Mr. Kane!" one shouted. "Is that your assistant?"
"Smile for us, sweetheart!" another jeered.
Damien's arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, his body angling to shield her. His voice was ice. "Get the hell out."
But it was too late.
The photos were taken. The damage was done.
Elara's heart hammered as Damien guided her toward the exit, his jaw locked tight, fury radiating off him.
In the back of the waiting car, silence stretched. Elara clutched her trembling hands together, staring out at the flashing lights behind them.
"This is bad," she whispered. "This is so, so bad."
Damien's hand closed over hers, firm, grounding. "No," he said, his voice low and certain. "This is war."