Chapter 6 — The Gala Invitation
"In a world of gold and glass, even secrets wear designer suits."
Arielle
The morning sunlight poured across ValenCor's lobby like liquid champagne—gold, flawless, and too bright for her mood. She walked through the glass doors, head high, while whispers followed her like a well-dressed shadow.
"Is it true?"
"They say she's working directly with the CEO."
"Some kind of… arrangement?"
Arielle ignored them. Rumors had always been part of the luxury world, the invisible currency traded alongside stock shares and gossip columns. She'd lived through worse. Still, it stung—how easily people could reduce her hard-earned reputation to speculation about a man she hadn't truly forgiven.
Her phone buzzed. Message from: Damian Valen
> Boardroom. 10 A.M. Sharp.
Of course. No greeting. No context. Just that familiar tone—command disguised as civility.
By ten, she stood before the frosted glass door of his office. Inside, Damian sat behind his desk, navy suit perfectly tailored, tie loosened just enough to make it unfair. Papers lay spread across polished oak, and the skyline glittered behind him like a kingdom only he ruled.
"Morning," she said, placing her tablet on the table.
He didn't look up immediately. "You're trending."
Her brows arched. "Excuse me?"
"Two gossip blogs picked up your name. Someone from inside leaked a story about our… collaboration." He finally met her gaze, eyes sharp but unreadable. "You're handling it better than most would."
"Because it's not my first scandal." Her voice was calm, but her pulse wasn't. "Besides, people only believe what fits their fantasy."
He almost smiled. "Then let's give them a better one."
Before she could respond, he slid a sleek black envelope across the desk. "The ECLAT Charity Gala. Tomorrow night. You'll attend as my strategic partner—and public companion."
Arielle blinked. "Your what?"
"Partner," he repeated smoothly. "The event will be swarming with investors. I want them to see unity. Control. Power."
Her lips curved slightly. "And what about the whispers?"
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Let them whisper. A narrative you don't fight becomes one you control."
Arielle crossed her arms, tilting her head. "You're enjoying this."
"Maybe." His voice lowered, dangerous silk. "But I also trust no one else to stand beside me in that room."
The air between them thickened—like the calm before a storm that never quite breaks. For a heartbeat, her breath caught on the edge of memory: the two of them years ago, standing in another ballroom, another city, when everything between them had still been fragile and new.
She reached for the invitation. "Fine. I'll attend. But on one condition."
His brow rose. "Which is?"
"This—" she gestured between them "—stays professional. No mind games. No… nostalgia."
He smiled faintly, but there was something haunted in it. "Then you might need a stronger dress code, Arielle."
She didn't answer. Just turned, heels clicking against the marble, each step a declaration of distance she wasn't sure she could maintain.
Outside the office, her heart thudded too loudly. Professional, she reminded herself. Stay professional. But even the way his name looked on that black envelope made her pulse skip.
---
Damian
He watched her leave, a perfect storm in a cream blazer and defiance. The scent of her perfume lingered—amber, quiet, and cruel.
Every instinct told him he'd just made a mistake.
Inviting her to the gala wasn't strategy—it was temptation with a glass of champagne.
He exhaled sharply, loosening his tie. For years, he'd ruled his world with logic, not emotion. But the moment Arielle walked back into it, the balance shifted. She'd always done that—walked into chaos and made it look like order.
He turned to the window, watching the clouds stretch over the skyline. Tomorrow night would test them both. The press, the investors, the eyes that never stopped watching. But it wasn't the cameras he feared—it was the unspoken electricity between them, the kind that never really dies.
For a moment, he let his guard drop. The memory of her laughter from years ago, that soft, impossible sound, flickered through him like a curse.
He reached for his phone and typed a message—then deleted it before sending.
Not yet.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
And when it did, nothing between them would remain untouched.
Xoxo Eloura 😘😘😍