It wasn't vanity that made Zara dress carefully that evening.
It was strategy.
The Prime Minister's Cultural & Media Ethics Dinner was not the place to show weakness, and absolutely not the place to look shaken. Every major figure in London's political, legal, and media circles would attend including the one man she wanted desperately to avoid.
Damon Huxley.
But she had no choice.
Her chambers insisted she go.
The Prime Minister's office wanted her there.
Her victory in court had made her the face of "integrity in the age of power."
She had no way out.
So she dressed for war.
The venue was a private estate in Westminster, a place older than several countries and certainly too expensive to exist quietly. Staff in black ties moved like ghosts through the massive foyer, arranging champagne flutes on silver trays.
Zara stepped out of the black car, her heels hitting the marble with a soft click.
Her gown was midnight blue fitted, elegant, shoulder-baring.
Braids swept into a low chignon.
Jewellery minimal, just a pair of diamonds at her ears.
She looked like royalty.
Unbothered.
Untouchable.
Inside, murmurs rose immediately.
"That's Zara Bennett…"
"She's even more stunning in person."
"She destroyed Huxley Media this week, didn't she?"
Zara ignored them.
She greeted politicians, barristers, senior partners, and NGO heads.
Handled small talk like a weapon.
Maintained grace.
But under her calm surface…
her nerves were taut strings.
Damon Huxley would be here.
She could feel it.
Like the air always changed before lightning struck.
Her spine stiffened as the room buzz shifted.
He had arrived.
She didn't turn.
She didn't have to.
The room moved differently when he walked in.
Conversations paused.
Eyes shifted.
The energy sharpened.
He was impossible to miss.
Damon Huxley entered the dining hall wearing a black velvet tuxedo jacket over a crisp white shirt, no tie neckline open enough to show the strong line of his throat. His skin glowed warm under the chandeliers, his jaw freshly shaved, hair precise, eyes moving like a man accustomed to taking a room apart and owning it.
His presence was dark gravity.
People flocked to him.
Investors.
Political donors.
Board members.
He greeted them with charm but no warmth, offering polite nods and calculated smiles.
Then his eyes landed on Zara.
The world stilled.
Zara fought the urge to turn away.
To breathe.
To pretend the temperature hadn't just spiked ten degrees.
He started walking toward her.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Predatory.
Her pulse kicked hard in her chest.
She forced her expression into neutrality.
He reached her and the air between them crackled.
"Ms. Bennett," Damon said, voice smooth, deep enough to shiver down her spine.
"Mr. Huxley," she replied, tone cool as ice.
"You look…"
His gaze traveled down her gown.
Back up.
Slow enough to be disrespectful.
Hot enough to be intimate.
"…prepared," he finished.
She resisted the urge to swallow.
"And you look," she said flatly, "predictably arrogant."
He laughed softly a dangerous sound.
"Tell me," he murmured, stepping close enough that only she could hear, "do you practice being this infuriating, or does it come naturally?"
Her breath hitched barely but he caught it.
Before she could respond, the Prime Minister approached, beaming.
"Ms. Bennett! Excellent work this week. And Mr. Huxley always a pleasure."
Zara stepped back.
Damon stepped forward. But their eyes stayed locked.
"Shall we?" the Prime Minister gestured toward the dining hall.
Zara turned without looking at Damon again.
But she felt him behind her.
Following.
Watching.
And the feeling was dangerously intoxicating.
Zara took her assigned seat and froze.
Her place card was directly beside Damon's.
Of course.
Of course this would happen.
Damon arrived a moment later, glanced at the arrangement, and the smirk that touched his lips made her want to overturn the table.
"Looks like fate enjoys humour," he said quietly, sitting beside her.
Zara kept her eyes on her napkin. "Or maybe the event coordinator hates me."
He leaned in, his breath warm near her ear. "If you hated me, you'd have requested a seat far from mine."
She stiffened. "I did."
His eyebrows rose intrigued.
Emboldened.
"Mmm," he murmured, leaning back. "Interesting."
She ignored him.
But her body didn't.
As course after course arrived, they maintained a perfect performance of civility.
Small smiles.
Occasional nods.
Polite distance.
But under the table; their knees brushed.
She froze.
He didn't.
"You're tense," he murmured without turning his head.
"You're hallucinating if you think I'm speaking to you," Zara replied calmly.
He chuckled a low, rich sound that melted into her spine.
"Tell me, Ms. Bennett," he said quietly, "does every victory feel this… sharp?"
"Only the ones where the opponent deserved to lose."
He slowly set down his wine glass.
"And what do you do," he murmured, "when the opponent doesn't plan to lose again?"
Heat shot through her.
"That sounds like a threat," she said.
"No," he corrected. "A promise."
The micro-expression that flickered across her face the spark of adrenaline, attraction, anger damn near broke his composure.
He wanted her rattled.
He wanted her angry.
He wanted her attention.
All of it.
And he was getting exactly what he wanted.
As dessert arrived, conversation turned to media ethics a topic far too close to the night's tension.
A lord at the table said, "Ms. Bennett, do you feel you were too harsh on Huxley Media?"
Before she could respond, Damon said smoothly:
"She wasn't harsh. She was precise."
Zara's eyes widened a fraction.
The table gasped softly.
"You're praising the woman who humiliated your company?" another guest asked Damon.
Damon swirled his wine, gaze still on Zara.
"It takes skill to dismantle something powerful," he said. "Not everyone can do it without losing themselves."
Zara's pulse fluttered.
She didn't like this.
His tone.
His words.
His eyes on her.
It felt like he was undressing her intentions and her defenses in front of the entire table.
She cleared her throat.
"With all due respect," she said, "powerful companies should not rely on theatrics to justify unethical actions."
"Is that what you think I do?" he asked softly.
"I don't think," Zara said sharply. "I know."
A hush fell.
Damon smiled but it wasn't mocking.
It was hungry.
"You know nothing about me," he murmured.
"And I don't want to," she shot back.
He leaned closer, voice dropping.
"You should."
Her breath trembled.
She hated that he noticed.
The Prime Minister clapped his hands lightly. "Alright, alright no bloodshed at the table, please."
Everyone laughed.
Zara didn't.
Damon did low and amused, his eyes still burning into hers.
The tension between them was no longer subtle.
It was a living thing.
Raw.
Visible.
Unavoidably charged.
After dinner, guests spilled into the courtyard garden, lanterns glowing through the trees. Zara desperately needed fresh air.
She stepped outside, exhaled, and leaned against a stone railing overlooking the hedge maze.
Behind her footsteps.
She closed her eyes. Of course.
She didn't turn. Didn't move.
"Are you avoiding me?" Damon asked, voice warm in the cool air.
"I'm breathing," she said.
"Same thing."
She sighed. "Go away, Damon."
He stepped beside her, both hands braced on the railing, their arms inches apart.
"I will," he said softly. "If you tell me why you're shaking."
She stiffened again.
"I'm not shaking."
"You are."
His voice was low.
Quiet.
Far too perceptive.
Zara stepped back sharply. "Don't psychoanalyze me."
"I'm not," he said simply. "I'm observing."
Her jaw tightened.
"Damon…"
"How long," he murmured, "have you been taught to fear powerful men?"
Her chest constricted.
That was too close.
Too intimate.
Too accurate.
She swallowed hard.
"I don't fear you," she said.
He turned toward her, eyes dark and steady.
"No," he said. "You fear what you feel around me."
Her throat locked.
He stepped closer, slow enough to give her time to push him away, fast enough that she didn't.
"You stand like someone ready to run," he whispered. "But your eyes… they want to stay."
Her breath left her.
A soft, quiet sound.
Damon's gaze lowered to her lips.
Just for a moment.
Just enough to make her heart slam into her ribs.
She turned her head sharply.
"Stop," she whispered.
He stepped back instantly.
Zara blinked surprised.
Damon watched her with something unfamiliar in his expression.
Respect.
She expected pressure.
Flirting.
Game.
Instead, he gave her space.
The silence stretched charged but careful.
"I didn't come out here to fight," he said finally.
"Then why did you follow me?"
He slid his hands into his pockets.
"To understand you."
She scoffed. "Impossible."
"Exactly," Damon murmured. "That's why I'm trying."
Zara looked at him sharply.
His eyes were steady.
Focused.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
She didn't understand this man.
One moment he was ego and strategy.
The next something softer.
Something that felt like truth.
"I don't want your interest," she said quietly.
He nodded once.
"I know."
"Then stop."
His gaze dropped not at her body.
At her hands.
"You're asking me," he said slowly, "to do something I've never done in my life."
"And what's that?"
"Lose willingly."
Her heartbeat stumbled.
She stepped back again not because she feared him, but because she feared herself.
"I should go," she whispered.
He nodded.
But when she turned away, his voice followed her low and dangerous.
"Zara."
She paused.
"Be careful," he said.
She frowned. "Of what?"
"Not me," he murmured. "You."
She swallowed hard.
His meaning hit her like a cold wave:
You're the one who's changing the rules.
She forced herself to walk away, heels clicking against the stone.
Damon watched her disappear into the mansion.
Expression unreadable.
Hands clenched.
Pulse racing.
The war had changed.
And he knew it.
Zara Bennett was no longer an opponent.
She was an obsession.
Zara's driver opened the door for her. She slid in, exhaling shakily as the car pulled away.
She pressed her fingers to her temples.
What was wrong with her?
Why was she still feeling his voice on her skin?
His eyes in her chest?
His presence under her breath?
This man had threatened her career.
Attacked her client.
Humiliated victims.
And yet
Her stomach twisted at the memory of how he looked at her.
Like he saw something in her that terrified him too.
She closed her eyes.
"This is madness," she whispered.
But her heart didn't believe her.
Damon sat in the back of his black Mercedes, staring out at the blur of city lights.
His assistant was talking.
He wasn't listening.
His thoughts were on Zara.
Her fire.
Her intelligence.
Her refusal to be impressed.
Her refusal to bend when every woman he knew bent effortlessly.
She was different.
She was infuriating.
She was magnetic.
She was…
Dangerous.
And for the first time in his life
Damon realized he wanted someone he could actually lose to.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"Pull up her schedule," he said suddenly.
His assistant blinked. "Sir?"
"Every event she's attending in the next six months."
The assistant hesitated. "May I ask why?"
Damon's jaw flexed.
"I want to be everywhere she is."