Elle's Pov
"I've spent my life with people who only want power," he says. His voice a low vibration, a secret only meant for me. "Status, wealth, appearances... that's their world. Then you showed up. Now, none of it matters. You make it real."
My pulse thrums. The heat of his hand sears my skin.
"You make me feel like I can breathe," he whispers.
My brain tells me to pull away, but my fingers betray me, leaning into his touch as if they've known him for lifetimes. Then, he drops to one knee.
A collective wave of gasps hits the hall. The music cuts, even the lights seem to freeze. Deep in my gut, my curse stirs. A flicker of a vision; of a grieving man with these exact eyes, shadows from a life that isn't mine.
"Will you marry me?"
The silence breaks into venomous murmurs.
"Who is she?"
"Is this a publicity stunt?"
"She isn't even dressed for this."
Heat rolls down my neck, stinging and hot. My black gown, a safe choice an hour ago, now feels like a charcoal smudge in a sea of glitter.
He leans in, his voice desperate. "Please. Say yes. I'll explain later."
The whispers rise like a tide. His grip is an anchor I can't shake.
"Surprise engagements never go well," someone sneers.
"Where did he find her? Why hasn't she been on the blogs?"
"Yes."
The word slips out before I can stop it.
The room explodes. Cameras turn the world into a blur of white noise. My legs go numb as a heavy, cold ring slides onto my finger. I've just sold my life for a single breath.
He pulls me close, his inhale sharp against my ear. "Thank you."
"I'm going to pass out," I manage to choke out.
He lets out a rough laugh, turning to the crowd. "She said yes!"
A shadow falls over us. A man in a suit, radiating military precision, appears.
"Take her to my office," the billionaire orders.
The guard's grip is a vice. He drags me through the suffocating crowd into a freezing corridor. My heels click frantically against the floor as we head toward massive gold doors. Behind us, the party dies. Ahead, there is only the thud of my heart.
*****
For weeks, The Crowned Heart had been our obsession. We should be screaming at the plot twists together, but she's miles away at her company's stiff gala, leaving me with an empty house.
I'm finally sinking back into the cushions when my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. I groan but stand to answer.
"Hey," I answer, sounding lazy. "Shouldn't you be bossing waiters or charming investors right now?"
"Elle, save me," she gasps. "I left my leather notebook on the table. My boss will kill me if he notices I don't have it. Please, you know we need this job."
I press my forehead against the cool counter and groan. "Seriously, Cam? I was seconds away to a Netflix coma."
"It's on the table! Love you."
There it is. That specific tone of hers that always breaks me. I look at my warm blanket and the bowl of popcorn. My quiet night is dead.
"You owe me big time," I mutter as I end the call.
I change into a short, simple black dress and sandals, then yank off my hair bonnet, letting my curls fall free. I don't have the energy for more. One quick trip, I tell myself. Drop it off and go home.
At the gala, I hover by the entrance. Camila doesn't pick up. I should leave, but the music pulls me in. I find myself in a massive ballroom, clutching the notebook like an intruder.
Then I see him: Damian Blackwell. The billionaire who built an empire from nothing.
He's near the stairs with his popular uncle, Harrison. The tension between them is visible. When I try to retreat behind a pillar, Harrison spots me. He snaps his fingers as if I'm a stray dog. "You. Come here."
I ignore him, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a glance. Camila needs this book, and I'm not wasting a second. I turn to leave, but his hand clamps around my arm, jerking me back.
"I said, come here."
Before I can tear myself away, a voice cuts through the room.
"Let her go."
Damian moves toward us. Up close, he isn't polished; he's raw, a storm held by a thread. He looks at me as if he's found something he lost years ago. He slides his hand into mine, and the room goes dead.
Harrison lets go slowly, wearing a fake, oily smile as I scramble back, my heart pounding.
*****
"Ma'am. This way."
I blink, snapping out of the memory. I give a quick nod and follow him into a huge and shadowed office. Bookshelves looming over us. In the center sits a massive desk, heavy and imposing as a throne.
"Please, wait here," the man said, gesturing toward a leather chair.
I sit down, clutching Camila's notebook to my chest. It's my only lifeline. If things goes south, at least the book will survive. That should count for something.
The door clicks shut, and the silence becomes deafening. My hands won't stop shaking as the ballroom scenes replays again and again in my head: the bruise Harrison's grip left behind, the thunder of Damian's voice, and that blurred, frantic moment where my mouth whispered yes before my brain could even process the question.
Another click.
The door swings open. Damian steps in. The warmth from the ballroom is gone; his eyes are cold, sizing me up.
"Tell me," he rasps, "why my uncle had his hand on you."