DAMIEN
The reception hall was every bit as extravagant as he'd envisioned, the kind of opulence that screamed wealth, power, and control. Marble floors gleamed under the glow of crystal chandeliers, their golden light refracting like shards of fire. Waiters weaved seamlessly between tables, balancing trays of champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres, while the hum of polite conversation filled the air.
Damien sat at the head table, his gaze scanning the room like a ruler surveying his kingdom. Every guest here had a reason to attend, whether it was to grovel for favor or to spy on the Black family's business. None of them were here for love, least of all him.
Beside him sat Amelia—his wife. The word felt foreign, almost ridiculous in its novelty. He glanced at her, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. She didn't look at him. She hadn't looked at him once since they'd left the church.
Her back was perfectly straight, her shoulders stiff with tension as she picked absently at the plate in front of her. She hadn't touched the champagne glass that shimmered in the soft light, though her fingers hovered near it occasionally, trembling just enough for him to notice. The faint tremor amused him. She was trying so hard to keep herself together, but her defiance leaked through in the rigidity of her posture, in the tight press of her lips, in the way her eyes burned with unspoken fury whenever someone congratulated her.
She hadn't acknowledged him during the toasts, hadn't so much as glanced his way when the cake was cut or when her father stood and made some weak joke that brought polite laughter from the crowd. That indifference—that defiance—made her stand apart.
Damien leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on her, observing the way she radiated tension. She was unlike anyone he'd ever encountered. Most women in her position would have tried to appease him by now, their fear outweighing any sense of pride. But Amelia wasn't afraid of him. Not yet, at least.
"Smile, Amelia," he said suddenly, his voice soft but commanding.
Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. Slowly, she turned her head to face him, her movements deliberate, her eyes blazing with a mixture of hatred and defiance. It was the first time she'd looked at him all night, and he couldn't help the satisfaction that crept up his spine.
"Why?" she asked, her voice low, a sharp edge of rebellion cutting through it. "So everyone thinks I'm happy about this?"
His smirk deepened, and he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Because if you don't, I'll give them something to talk about."
For a moment, she didn't move, didn't speak. Her jaw tightened, and he could practically see the war waging behind her eyes. He half expected her to snap back, to challenge him openly. A part of him almost wanted her to. But then, slowly, she turned back to her plate and forced a small, tight smile onto her face.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low drawl.
Her hand tightened around her fork, but she didn't respond. He sat back in his chair, utterly satisfied, as if taming her even slightly was a victory in itself.
The rest of the reception passed in a blur of meaningless chatter and false congratulations. Damien nodded politely when necessary, offered tight smiles where appropriate, but his attention remained half on his wife. The guests had come to witness the union, of course, but their real purpose was far more self-serving. They were here to see him, to gauge his strength, to remind themselves of his untouchable status.
Damien let them look. Power wasn't just about control; it was about perception. The Black Syndicate thrived on fear as much as strategy, and tonight was no different. Everything about this event had been carefully curated to send a message: Damien Black was untouchable, unshakable, and in complete control.
And yet, his wife defied that narrative.
She sat beside him, a storm barely contained beneath her polished exterior. The other guests didn't see it; to them, she was just another beautiful bride, perhaps a little shy, perhaps overwhelmed by the weight of the evening. But Damien saw the fire simmering just below the surface, threatening to burst free.
She was different. She didn't fear him the way the others did. There was caution in her, yes—he'd seen it in the way her hand trembled when she raised her glass—but fear? No. She burned with a defiance that most people wouldn't dare aim in his direction.
For now, it amused him. She was like a wild animal trapped in a cage, pacing, snarling, but not yet fully broken. She didn't know it yet, but she was already his. Her fire, her defiance, her hatred—it all belonged to him now.
He turned his head slightly, catching her profile as she pushed the food around her plate. She was stunning, of course, but that wasn't what intrigued him. It was the way her pride still clung to her, even as everything around her had crumbled.
I'll extinguish that fire, he thought, his smirk returning as he lifted his champagne glass to his lips. But not yet. Watching it flicker and fight will be the best part.