CHAPTER 7: CLOSER
One week into the marriage.
Three moves predicted.
Three moves blocked.
Damian's board meeting was scheduled for Tuesday morning. I sat in the back of the conference room, watching twelve men in expensive suits try to understand what was happening to their company.
"Northbridge was supposed to go to Westwood," one of them said. "How did we close that deal?"
"Strategic positioning," Damian replied smoothly.
He sat at the head of the table like he owned the world. Perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Dark hair styled back. Sharp features that commanded attention without effort.
"And Silverton Tech? Westwood had that locked down."
"Apparently not." His voice was deep. Commanding.
"And Morrison Industries—"
"Is now a Sterling partner. Yes." He leaned back in his chair, gray eyes cold as steel. "Any other questions?"
Silence.
They were all staring at him like he'd grown a second head.
A month ago, they'd been quietly preparing for a company sale. Watching Sterling Enterprises slowly bleed out under Westwood's invisible assault.
Now they were watching their CEO outmaneuver the most powerful businessman in London with what looked like supernatural precision.
"There's a board dinner tomorrow night," the chairman said finally. "Annual tradition. Your... wife should attend."
Every eye in the room turned to me.
I smiled politely.
Said nothing.
After the meeting, Damian found me in his office.
"You don't have to go," he said. "The dinner. If you're not comfortable—"
"I'm going."
"Elena—"
"Harlow will be there."
Damian went still. "Which one is Harlow?"
"The one feeding Marcus information."
His eyes darkened. "You're sure."
"Completely." I pulled up a file on my tablet. "Every move you make gets back to Marcus within hours. Harlow is the leak. He's drowning in gambling debts Marcus paid off in exchange for inside information."
Damian stared at the file.
Then at me.
Something flickered across his face. Something uncertain.
"How do you know about his gambling debts?" he asked carefully. "That information isn't public."
I met his eyes. "I have my sources."
"Sources that know things that haven't happened yet."
The words hung between us.
He'd noticed.
Of course he'd noticed. Damian Sterling wasn't stupid.
"You've predicted three major moves before they happened," he continued, his voice measured. "You knew exactly what Northbridge's CEO would care about. You knew about contracts that weren't finalized yet. You know things about people's private lives that shouldn't be knowable."
I said nothing.
"I'm not complaining," he said quietly. "You've saved my company. But Elena... how?"
"Does it matter?"
"It's starting to."
I looked at him. At the confusion in his eyes. The man who trusted data and logic struggling with something that didn't make sense.
"I need you to trust me," I said finally. "Even if you don't understand how."
He studied me for a long moment.
"I do trust you." A pause. "But that doesn't mean it doesn't feel... off sometimes. Like you're reading from a script only you can see."
"Maybe I am."
"Elena—"
"I need to be in that room tomorrow night," I said, changing the subject. "I need to watch Harlow. Confirm it."
Damian looked like he wanted to push further.
But he didn't.
"Then you'll be there," he said finally.
"As your wife."
Something heated in his eyes at the word.
"As my wife," he confirmed.
The next evening, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest bedroom.
The dress had arrived that afternoon. Damian's assistant had sent three options.
I'd chosen the dangerous one.
Crimson red. Silk that clung to every curve before flowing down to pool at my feet. A high slit up the left thigh. An open back that dipped low. Long sleeves that somehow made the whole thing even more devastating.
I looked like sin wrapped in expensive fabric.
My dark hair fell in waves down my bare back. Makeup subtle except for lips painted the exact shade of the dress. Skin glowing. Eyes luminous.
I checked the mirror one last time.
And smiled.
Downstairs, I heard voices. The driver had arrived.
I grabbed the clutch. Took a breath.
And walked out.
The stairs curved down into the main living area where Damian was waiting, checking something on his phone.
Black tuxedo. Perfectly fitted. The kind of presence that filled a room without trying.
He looked up as I started down the stairs.
And went completely still.
His phone stayed frozen halfway to his pocket. His eyes widened.
Then darkened.
He tracked my movement. Started at my heels. Traveled slowly up the exposed skin of my leg through the slit. Lingered on the curve of my waist. The dip of my back as I turned slightly.
Finally reached my face.
He didn't say anything.
Couldn't, apparently.
I reached the bottom of the stairs.
Walked toward him.
Stopped close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Close enough that my perfume—something dark and intoxicating—drifted between us.
I leaned in.
Put my lips next to his ear.
"What's the matter, Mr. Sterling?" My voice was barely a whisper. "Cat got your tongue?"
I felt him inhale sharply.
Felt every muscle in his body tense.
Felt the heat radiating off him.
My perfume filled his senses. Made him want to lean closer. Made him want to inhale deeper.
When I pulled back, his eyes were molten silver.
"Not really," he said, his voice rough. "Just trying to decide if you're real or if I've finally lost my mind."
Heat flooded my face.
He smiled. That slow, dangerous smile.
Then he held out his hand.
I took it.
His fingers closed around mine. Strong. Warm. Possessive.
"Ready, Mrs. Sterling?"
"Always."
We walked out together.
The board dinner was being held at The Dorchester.
Private dining room. Crystal chandeliers. Tables set with expensive china.
We arrived fashionably late.
The room was already full. Board members and their wives. Business partners. Investors.
Everyone talking and laughing with champagne glasses in hand.
The conversation died the moment we walked in.
Every head turned.
Every eye landed on us.
On me in that dress.
On Damian's hand resting possessively on my lower back.
On the way we moved together like we'd been doing this for years instead of days.
Several women literally stopped mid-sentence.
Several men stared with something between awe and hunger.
Their wives noticed.
Glared.
I smiled sweetly.
Damian leaned down. His lips brushed my ear.
"They're staring."
"Good."
His hand pressed slightly more firmly against my back.
Claiming.
We made our way through the room. Damian introducing me, shaking hands, making small talk.
But I was scanning faces.
Looking for Harlow.
Found him near the bar.
Mid-fifties. Thinning hair. Expensive suit that didn't quite fit right anymore. Drinking scotch and watching Damian with calculating eyes.
"There," I murmured.
Damian followed my gaze.
"I see him."
Dinner was torture.
Not because of the food—which was exceptional—but because Harlow was seated three chairs down from us and spent the entire meal fishing for information.
"So, Damian," Harlow said during the second course. "This recent success. New strategy consultant?"
"Something like that."
"Must be quite the consultant to turn things around so dramatically."
Damian smiled. Said nothing.
Harlow tried again. "I heard Westwood was quite surprised about Northbridge. Almost like someone knew his offer in advance."
"Lucky timing."
"And Silverton? Morrison? All lucky timing?"
I watched Harlow's eyes. Watched the way he was memorizing every word. Every reaction.
Getting ready to report back to Marcus.
"Actually—" Damian started.
My hand moved under the table.
Covered his.
Squeezed once.
Don't answer that.
Damian stopped mid-sentence.
His hand turned under mine. Fingers threading through mine briefly before I pulled back.
The contact lasted maybe two seconds.
It felt like fire.
He glanced at me.
I kept my face perfectly neutral.
He got the message.
"Actually," he said, turning back to Harlow, "I'd rather talk about your recent trip to Monaco. I heard the casinos were quite busy this season."
Harlow's face went pale.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" Damian's voice was pleasant. Light. But there was steel underneath. "I find it fascinating how gambling debts can influence business decisions. Don't you agree?"
Harlow opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Downed his scotch in one gulp.
Didn't ask any more questions for the rest of the night.
When dessert was served, Damian leaned close to me.
His eyes held something warm. Something intense.
Pride.
And something else.
Something deeper.
"That was perfect," he murmured. "You're perfect."
I looked at him.
At this man who trusted me even when things didn't quite add up.
"We make a good team," I said quietly.
His eyes held mine.
Burning.
"Yes," he said. "We do."
The car ride home was silent at first.
I stared out the window at London passing by in blurs of light, very aware of Damian's presence beside me.
Of the way his cologne filled the enclosed space.
Of the heat radiating from his body.
"Harlow," Damian said finally.
"Harlow," I confirmed.
"You knew before we walked in."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Is there anything you don't know?"
I looked out the window.
"I know how it ends," I said quietly. "I just don't know how we get there."
The silence that followed was different from all our other silences.
Warmer.
Heavier.
More uncertain.
I felt movement beside me.
Looked down.
Damian's hand was moving toward mine on the center console.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
It stopped just short of touching.
Hovered there in the space between us.
My heart was hammering.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket instead.
Pulled out a small velvet box.
"I got you something," he said.
I stared at the box. "Damian—"
"Open it."
I did.
Inside was a necklace.
Pink diamond. Enormous. Flawless. Set in platinum. The kind of stone you only saw in museums or on royalty.
I couldn't breathe.
"There are only three of these in the world," Damian said quietly. "I had to call in several favors to acquire it."
"I can't accept this—"
"Yes, you can." He took the necklace from the box. The diamond caught the passing streetlights, throwing pink fire. "A rare diamond for a rare gem."
The words made my chest tight.
I looked at him.
"Mr. Sterling," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I hope you're not falling for me."
His mouth curved into that devastating smile.
He leaned closer.
So close I could smell his cologne. Could feel the heat radiating off him.
My perfume drifted between us again. That intoxicating scent that made him want to close the distance. Made him want to breathe deeper.
"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping low. "I can't help it, Mrs. Sterling."
My face went hot.
Burning.
He reached out.
Pinched my cheek gently.
His smirk widened at my reaction.
"Turn around," he said softly.
I did.
His fingers brushed the back of my neck as he fastened the necklace.
The touch was feather-light.
It burned.
Sent electricity racing down my spine.
The diamond settled just above my collarbone.
Heavy. Cold. Beautiful.
"Perfect," Damian murmured.
His breath ghosted across my bare shoulder.
He lingered there for just a moment longer than necessary. Inhaling.
I turned back around.
We were so close I could count his heartbeats.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"You're welcome."
Neither of us moved.
The tension was suffocating.
The car pulled up to the penthouse.
The driver opened the door.
The spell shattered.
We walked inside in silence that felt heavy with unspoken things.
At the guest room door, I stopped.
Looked back.
Damian was standing in the hallway, watching me.
"Goodnight, Elena."
"Goodnight, Damian."
I closed the door.
Leaned against it.
Touched the diamond at my throat.
Still warm from his hands.
And smiled.
Across the city, Marcus sat alone in his penthouse.
Midnight.
The lights were off.
His phone glowed in the darkness.
On the screen: a photo.
Someone had posted it online. Already going viral.
Damian and Elena walking into The Dorchester.
Her in that red dress.
Him with his hand on her back.
Both of them looking like they'd been married for years instead of days.
But it wasn't the dress that made Marcus's hand shake.
It wasn't Sterling's possessive touch.
It was Elena's face.
She was looking up at Damian. Saying something. Smiling.
A real smile.
Soft. Genuine. Happy.
The kind of smile Marcus realized he'd never once seen her give him.
Not in five years of being engaged.
Not once.
She'd never looked at him like that.
He put the phone face-down on the table.
Picked it up again.
Stared at the photo.
Put it down.
"Marcus?" Isabelle's voice drifted from the hallway. She'd moved in the day after the wedding. Confident. Victorious. "Come to bed."
He didn't answer.
Just kept staring at the dark ceiling.
Thinking about a girl in an ivory wedding dress walking out of a church.
Thinking about how she'd looked at Sterling tonight.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Harlow.
They know. I'm out. I'm sorry.
Marcus smiled in the darkness.
Not a nice smile.
A broken one.
Obsessed.
Unraveling.
He was going to destroy Damian Sterling.
He was going to get Elena back.
Even if he had to burn the entire city down to do it.
She was his.
She just didn't know it yet.
"Let the games begin," he whispered.
And started planning his next move.