The Mandarin Oriental ballroom is exactly the kind of place where Manhattan's elite come to pretend they care about charity.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne towers. Women in gowns that cost more than most people's annual salary. Men in tuxedos discussing deals that'll make or break companies before dessert is served.
I'm wearing Valentino. Red. The kind of red that makes people look twice. The kind that says I belong here, that I've always belonged here, that I wasn't serving these same people appetizers two weeks ago.
Damien's wearing Armani. Black tuxedo, crisp white shirt, looking every inch the billionaire he's pretending to still be.
Except tonight, he's not here as a guest.
He's here as my assistant.
"Stay close," I tell him as we walk through the entrance. "When I need something, you get it. When I'm talking to someone, you stand two steps behind me and don't speak unless spoken to. Understand?"
His jaw tightens. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
A pause. I can see the war happening behind those gray eyes. Pride versus survival.
"Yes, Ms. Sterling."
Better.
The event is a fundraiser for some arts foundation—the kind of cause rich people support because it looks good in the society pages. I don't care about the cause. I care about the guest list.
Every major player in New York's business world is here tonight. Which means every major player is going to see Damien Cross following me around like a puppy.
It's perfect.
"Ms. Sterling!" A silver-haired man in an expensive suit approaches. Robert Chen—one of Damien's board members. The one who was ready to fire him two days ago. "What a pleasant surprise. I didn't know you'd be attending."
"Last-minute decision." I shake his hand, feel Damien tense behind me. "I've been meaning to introduce myself. Stellar Holdings is very interested in expanding our partnerships."
"Of course, of course." Chen's practically salivating. New money is still money. "We should set up a meeting. Discuss opportunities."
"I'd like that." I smile. Let the moment stretch. Then, without looking back: "Damien, get me a glass of champagne."
The silence that follows is exquisite.
Chen's eyes widen slightly as he realizes who's standing behind me. Recognition, then confusion, then barely concealed delight. "Cross? I didn't realize you two were... working together."
"Mr. Cross is helping me navigate the New York business scene," I say smoothly. "He's been very... accommodating."
Damien says nothing. Just turns and walks toward the bar.
I watch him go, feel a flicker of something that might be guilt. Might be satisfaction. Might be both.
Chen watches him too. "Interesting development."
"Isn't it?" I accept the champagne Damien brings back without thanking him. "Tell me, Robert—may I call you Robert?—what do you know about the Silverbrook acquisition?"
We talk business for ten minutes. The whole time, Damien stands behind me. Silent. I can feel him there, feel the humiliation radiating off him like heat.
This is what I wanted. To strip away his power. To make him invisible. To show him what it feels like to be nothing.
So why does it feel hollow?
By eight o'clock, I've worked the room like a politician. Made connections. Dropped hints about Stellar Holdings' expansion plans. Let everyone see Damien trailing behind me like hired help.
It's working. I can see it in their faces—the speculation, the gossip already starting. By tomorrow, everyone will know that Damien Cross is somehow under my control.
"Aria Sterling?" A voice behind me. Male. Smooth. Familiar somehow.
I turn.
The man standing there is handsome in that polished, practiced way—dark hair graying at the temples, expensive suit, smile that probably charms investors and breaks hearts in equal measure. He's holding two champagne glasses and looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing in the room.
"Marcus Kane," he says, extending a hand. "Though I suppose I should introduce myself properly as Marcus Sterling now. We're cousins. Distant ones, but family nonetheless."
Marcus Sterling. Of course. My grandfather mentioned him once—his nephew, the one who runs a competing venture capital firm. The one who's been trying to poach Stellar Holdings' clients for years.
The one who's Damien's biggest rival.
"Marcus." I shake his hand. "I've heard about you."
"Nothing good, I hope." His smile widens. "Your grandfather and I had a... competitive relationship. But I always respected him. And now that you've taken over..." He hands me one of the champagne glasses. "I'd love to discuss potential collaborations. Perhaps over dinner?"
Behind me, I hear Damien shift. Good. Let him squirm.
"I'm always open to discussing business," I say. "Though I should warn you, I've already got several very persistent suitors."
"I don't mind competition." Marcus's eyes flick briefly to Damien, then back to me. "In fact, I thrive on it. Ask anyone."
We talk. He's charming, intelligent, makes me laugh at some industry gossip about a mutual competitor. And the whole time, I'm aware of Damien standing there, watching, probably dying inside.
This is better than I imagined. Not just humiliating Damien—making him watch while another man flirts with me. Making him see what it feels like to be replaced.
"You should meet my business partner," Marcus is saying. "Brilliant woman, runs our tech acquisitions division. Actually, she used to work for Kane Tech Solutions before—" He stops abruptly.
The air changes.
"Before what?" I ask, though I already know.
"Before the company folded." Marcus looks uncomfortable now. "I'm sorry, that was tactless. I'd forgotten the connection."
"It's fine." My voice is steady. "Ancient history."
But it's not fine. And it's not ancient history. It's three years and a lifetime ago, and suddenly I'm twenty-five again, watching my father's company collapse, watching my whole world burn.
"If you'll excuse me," I say abruptly. "I need to find the ladies' room."
I walk away before Marcus can respond. Before Damien can follow. Before anyone can see the crack forming in my carefully constructed armor.
The bathroom is mercifully empty.
I grip the marble counter, stare at my reflection. The woman looking back at me is put together, powerful, in control.
She's also a liar.
My phone buzzes. A text from Maya: How's it going?
Perfect, I type back. He's miserable.
Another buzz. This time it's a photo. Maya must've sent it from somewhere in the ballroom—a candid shot of me and Damien from earlier tonight.
We're standing by the bar. I'm talking to someone off-camera. And Damien's looking at me with this expression I can't quite read. Not anger. Not hatred.
Something softer. Something that looks almost like longing.
My chest tightens.
Another photo. This one's older—must be from Maya's research files. It's from three years ago. Damien and me at some restaurant, tucked into a corner booth. We're laughing about something. His arm's around me. I'm looking at him like he hung the moon.
We look happy. We look real.
We look like people who had no idea their whole relationship was built on lies.
I delete both photos. But I can't delete the feeling they leave behind—this ache that sits right below my ribs and won't go away.
The bathroom door opens. An older woman walks in, barely glances at me, disappears into a stall.
I splash cold water on my wrists. Pull myself together. This is what I wanted, remember? To make him pay. To feel powerful instead of broken.
So why do I feel more broken than ever?
When I return to the ballroom, Marcus is waiting.
"Everything alright?" he asks.
"Perfect." I accept another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "Where were we?"
We pick up the conversation. He tells me about a startup he's considering acquiring. Asks my opinion. Treats me like an equal, which is refreshing after years of being treated like nothing.
I'm laughing at something he said when I see Damien across the room.
He's still standing where I left him, but he's not alone anymore. Some socialite has cornered him, clearly fishing for gossip. He looks trapped. Uncomfortable.
Good.
"You know," Marcus says, following my gaze, "there are rumors about you and Cross. About why he's suddenly playing assistant."
"Are there?" I turn back to him. Put on my best innocent expression. "People will gossip about anything."
"True." He leans closer. Drops his voice. "But between you and me? Whatever you're doing to him, he deserves it. Damien Cross has destroyed more companies than I can count. It's about time someone put him in his place."
The words should feel validating. Instead, they just feel sad.
Because Marcus doesn't know the whole story. Doesn't know about Damien's mother. About his father's manipulation. About the impossible choice he was given.
Not that it excuses what he did. Nothing excuses what he did.
But it complicates things.
Everything's always more complicated than it should be.
"Dance with me," Marcus says suddenly.
"What?"
"There's a dance floor. An orchestra. And I'd very much like to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room." He offers his hand. "Unless you're worried about what people will think?"
I glance at Damien again. He's watching us now. Watching Marcus offer his hand. Watching me decide.
This is it. This is the moment I prove I've moved on. That he means nothing to me. That I can flirt and dance and live my life without his ghost haunting every decision.
I take Marcus's hand.
The orchestra's playing something slow and elegant. Marcus is a good dancer—confident, smooth, knows how to lead without being overbearing. We move across the floor and I can feel eyes on us. The whispers starting.
Over his shoulder, I can see Damien. Still standing where I left him. Still watching.
Still looking like I just stabbed him.
"You're a natural," Marcus murmurs. "At this whole business world thing. Most people who inherit money don't know what to do with it. But you... you're strategic. Ruthless when you need to be."
"My grandfather taught me well." Even though I barely knew him. Even though I'm making this up as I go.
"He'd be proud."
Would he? I'm not sure. Using billions of dollars to psychologically torture a man who wronged me seems less like good business and more like spectacular pettiness.
But I'm committed now.
The song ends. Marcus walks me back to the edge of the dance floor, his hand lingering on my lower back.
"Have dinner with me," he says. "Tomorrow night. No business talk. Just two people getting to know each other."
I should say no. Should keep this professional. But Damien's standing twenty feet away, probably hearing every word, and I want him to hear this.
"I'd like that."
Marcus smiles. Leans in. For a horrible second I think he's going to kiss me, but he just brushes his lips against my cheek. "Tomorrow then. I'll text you."
He walks away.
I turn to find Damien.
And freeze.
Because standing right behind him, ice-blue eyes sharp and dangerous, is Victoria Sterling.
His fiancée.
And from the look on her face, she's figured out that something is very, very wrong.
"Damien." Her voice carries across the space between us. Sweet as arsenic. "Fancy seeing you here. You said you had a board meeting tonight."
Oh shit.
He recovers quickly—I'll give him that. Straightens. Puts on his corporate mask. "Victoria. I didn't know you were attending."
"Obviously." She's looking at me now. Really looking. And I can see the moment recognition clicks. "You. You're the server from our engagement party. The one who spilled champagne all over me."
"Ms. Sterling now," I correct. Cool as ice. "Aria Sterling. Of Stellar Holdings."
"How convenient." Victoria's smile could cut glass. "And what exactly is my fiancé doing here with you? Playing fetch?"
The ballroom's gotten quieter. People are pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. This is better than the entertainment they paid for.
"Mr. Cross has been assisting with some business matters," I say. "Nothing to concern yourself with."
"Business matters." She laughs. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're parading him around like a trained dog."
Damien opens his mouth—probably to smooth things over, to lie, to protect both of us—but Victoria cuts him off.
"We're leaving." She grabs his arm. "Now. We need to talk. Privately."
She starts to pull him toward the exit.
And I have a choice.
Let him go. Let Victoria take him. Let this whole night end before it spirals even further out of control.
Or...
"Actually," I say, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, "Mr. Cross can't leave yet. We have several more introductions to make. Business, you understand."
Victoria stops. Turns. And the look she gives me could melt steel.
"Excuse me?"
"Your fiancé is working for me tonight." I smile. Sweet. Deadly. "And his contract specifies he stays until I dismiss him. Don't you, Damien?"
Every eye in the room is on us now.
Damien looks from Victoria to me. Trapped between two impossible choices.
And I realize I've just made a terrible mistake.
Because Victoria Sterling isn't just some spoiled socialite. She's smart. Connected. Dangerous when crossed.
And I just crossed her in front of half of Manhattan's business elite.
"Damien." Victoria's voice is quiet now. Lethal. "Choose. Right now. Come with me, or stay with her. But understand that whatever you choose defines everything that comes next."
The ballroom holds its breath.
So do I.