The crystal chandeliers of the Blackwell Gala sparkled with a brilliance that seemed almost blinding to Elena Cruz. She wasn't supposed to be here, not really. An invitation from her best friend, who worked as an assistant to one of the event coordinators, had landed her in this room of polished elegance and unapologetic wealth. Artists like her didn't belong here.
Elena smoothed her second-hand cocktail dress, its navy fabric barely passing for designer under the scrutiny of the socialites swarming the hall. Her heels pinched her feet, but she wasn't about to show weakness. She wasn't invisible in this room full of power. She wouldn't let herself be.
"Keep your head up," her friend Maya had whispered before vanishing into the crowd. "You never know who you might meet tonight."
If only she had known how prophetic those words would be.
As Elena slipped toward the quieter end of the hall, she caught sight of a man whose presence was impossible to ignore. Damien Blackwell, the host of the evening, and the very definition of power incarnate.
He was tall, dressed impeccably in a black suit that molded to his athletic frame. His sharp jawline, piercing grey eyes, and the way he exuded control made him stand out even among the city's elite. Everyone wanted a piece of him—a handshake, a deal, a chance.
Elena wasn't interested in any of that. Men like Damien belonged to a world far removed from hers, one where compassion and decency were buried under layers of ambition and wealth.
She turned to leave the room, but her foot caught the edge of the carpet, and she stumbled, grabbing a nearby table to steady herself. In doing so, she unintentionally leaned too close to the heavy, dark curtains shielding a small alcove nearby.
And that's when she heard them.
"You want results, then you pay what I'm asking," Damien's voice cut through the low hum of the gala, sharp and commanding. "I don't care how many corners you have to cut, just make it happen. This deal doesn't fail. Understand?"
Elena froze. She knew she shouldn't be eavesdropping, but something about his tone was magnetic. It wasn't just businesslike—it was dangerous.
The voice on the other end of the phone call was muffled, but Damien's next words sent a chill down her spine.
"Good. Make sure no one ties it back to me. You know what happens if they do."
Her stomach churned. Whatever he was discussing, it wasn't legal—or ethical. She had to get out of here before he noticed her. She took a step back, careful not to make a sound, but her heel betrayed her with a faint click against the marble floor.
Damien's head snapped in her direction.
"Who's there?"
Her heart raced as their eyes met. His piercing gaze locked onto her, and she felt as though he could see straight through her. For a moment, she was rooted in place, unable to look away from the intensity of his expression.
Then his features shifted—recognition, curiosity, and something darker flashed in his eyes. He ended the call and took a step toward her.
"You've been standing there a while," he said, his voice low and measured. "What did you hear?"
Elena swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Nothing. I—I just stumbled past and—"
"You don't look like the kind of woman who just stumbles," Damien interrupted, his tone razor-sharp. "You were listening."
"No, I wasn't—"
"Lying doesn't suit you." He was closer now, his presence overpowering. "Do you know who I am?"
"Of course I do," she replied, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "Everyone knows who you are."
"Then you know I don't take kindly to being spied on."
Elena's panic bubbled over, and she did the only thing she could think of—she fled. She turned on her heel and bolted toward the exit, ignoring the stares of the other guests.
She didn't stop running until she was outside, the cool night air hitting her face. Her heart hammered in her chest as she hailed a cab, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the Blackwell Gala as possible.
But even as she sped away, Damien's face and his ominous words were burned into her mind.
As the cab disappeared into the night, Damien stepped out from the shadows of the gala's entrance, his phone in hand. His expression was unreadable as he spoke into the receiver.
"I want everything about her on my desk by morning. No excuses."