Chapter 9 — The Gala Continues (or How to Survive Admirers and Dessert Disasters)
"Charm is measured in how many disasters you can survive with a smile."
The ballroom still sparkled, chandeliers tossing diamonds of light across silk gowns and tuxedos. Eloura, heels precarious and laughter ready, noticed a man striding toward her with all the confidence of someone who had never been corrected by Damian Valen.
"Good evening, Miss Vayne," he said, bowing so low it seemed dangerous. "Might I have the honor of a dance?"
Eloura raised an eyebrow, amused. "A dance? Or a public humiliation? I can never tell."
Before he could answer, a voice low and sharp as a blade sliced through the air.
"I think she'll decline."
The man froze mid-bow. Damian had materialized beside her, every inch the perfect predator in a tuxedo. His presence alone radiated warning: approach at your own peril.
"Oh, I was just—" the admirer tried.
"—thinking you could try again in another lifetime," Damian said smoothly, arm draped over Eloura's waist.
Eloura snorted. "You're terrifying."
"Good," he replied, calm as ever. "Efficiency is underrated."
Red-faced, the man retreated toward the buffet, muttering something about champagne. Damian's gaze followed him, then returned to Eloura with mock gravity. "Safe. For now."
She laughed, tugging at his arm. "You do know how to make people sweat."
"I prefer 'strategically intimidating,'" he said. "Shall we navigate the next round of disasters?"
And disaster did not disappoint. A guest carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres tripped, sending miniature quiches soaring through the air. Damian, ever alert, snatched one mid-flight and offered it to her with a bow.
"You're like an action hero at a luxury event," Eloura said between laughs.
"I take my work seriously," he said. "No dessert casualties on my watch."
The next would-be admirer approached, bouquet in hand, smiling like he hadn't seen Damian yet.
"Miss Vayne, I couldn't leave without—"
Damian stepped forward. "Interesting gesture. But inappropriate. Hand it over."
The man's smile faltered. "I… I'll come back later."
Eloura held onto Damian's arm, laughing. "You're impossible!"
"Impeccable," Damian corrected, ever the showman. "Now, to a safe corner. Away from flowers, flying pastries, and social faux pas."
They found a balcony, slightly secluded from the glittering chaos inside. The city lights stretched beneath them like spilled gems. Damian's hand lingered on her waist, casual but charged.
"You know," he murmured, "for someone who mocks my 'intensity,' you seem… comfortable with it."
Eloura smirked. "Comfortable, yes. But don't think I won't make you earn every bit of charm."
Damian's eyes glinted. "Challenge accepted."
For a heartbeat, the gala and its sparkling chaos shrank behind them. Laughter, teasing, and the faint promise of something more hung in the air, between the echo of the ballroom and the distant hum of the city.
And just like that, amidst flying desserts, awkward admirers, and golden light, Eloura realized Damian's idea of protection was dangerously… delightful.
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