Three days later, Evelyn found herself being prepped for the annual Rocky Mountain Foundation Charity Gala, the first major event on the schedule Damien had given her. It was a masterclass in transformation. Ms. Jennings had orchestrated the entire affair, bringing in a celebrity stylist and a makeup artist who worked on Evelyn with the focused intensity of sculptors creating a masterpiece.
She was zipped into a sapphire-blue gown that shimmered under the light, her hair swept into an elegant chignon. Diamonds, cold and brilliant, were clasped around her neck and wrist—loaned, she was pointedly told, from the Blackwood family vault. Staring at her reflection, Evelyn saw the perfect image of a billionaire's fiancée. She looked beautiful, polished, and entirely unfamiliar.
Damien was waiting for her in the main living area. He wore a classic black tuxedo that made him look even more formidable than usual. His eyes swept over her, a clinical, assessing gaze that cataloged every detail.
"Acceptable," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. As she approached, he held out his arm. "Tonight, your only job is to look serene and agree with anything I say. Do not engage in any… unscripted conversations. Is that clear?"
"Crystal," Evelyn replied, placing her hand lightly on his arm. His muscle tensed reflexively at her touch before relaxing into rigid steel.
The journey to the hotel ballroom was silent. When they arrived, they were immediately engulfed by a sea of flashing camera bulbs and the muted roar of the high-society crowd. Evelyn forced a placid smile onto her face, the one she'd perfected during grueling corporate negotiations. Damien's hand moved to the small of her back, a possessive, guiding pressure that was both a public claim and a private warning.
Inside, the ballroom was a glittering spectacle of wealth and influence. They had barely taken ten steps when a woman with sharp features and an even sharper smile intercepted them. Evelyn recognized her from the society pages: Morgan Sinclair, an heiress whose family's energy conglomerate was a major competitor to Blackwood Corp.
"Damien, darling!" Morgan cooed, her eyes sliding past him to fix on Evelyn with predatory glee. "And Evelyn! How wonderful to see you out and about. We were all so worried after your little… episode at the gala. I'm glad to see you've recovered your composure."
The insult was veiled, but the intent was clear—to humiliate her, to remind everyone of her previous public disgrace. Evelyn felt Damien's hand tighten on her back, a silent command to stay quiet. But she had no intention of being a silent victim.
Turning slightly, Evelyn met Morgan's malicious gaze with a calm, almost beatific smile. "That's so kind of you to worry, Morgan," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "I find deep passion is a valuable asset, especially when it's properly focused. It's what separates those who merely inherit success from those who build it. I'm sure you understand the difference."
A flicker of stunned confusion crossed Morgan's face. The retort was so polite, so elegantly phrased, that she couldn't possibly take offense publicly. Yet the underlying sting—that Morgan was merely an heiress while Evelyn was positioning herself as a builder—had hit its mark. Morgan stammered a noncommittal reply and, with a tight smile, quickly excused herself.
Evelyn turned back to Damien, her serene expression still perfectly in place. She saw a flicker in his dark eyes—not surprise, exactly, but a re-evaluation. He had expected her to be a liability he had to manage. He had not expected her to be a shield.
"Not bad," he murmured, his voice so low only she could hear it as he guided her toward the bar. "But the night is young. Don't get cocky."
For the next hour, Evelyn played her part to perfection. She smiled, nodded, and endured mind-numbing conversations about polo ponies and European holidays. While Damien was pulled into a conversation with the Governor, Evelyn found a quiet corner, nursing a glass of sparkling water. It was then that she overheard a conversation between two older men complaining about their portfolios.
"...complete write-off," one of them grumbled. "That logistics startup, 'RidgeLine Logistics'? Poured a fortune into it. Their tech is revolutionary—AI-driven route optimization for mountain terrain—but their management is burning through cash with nothing to show for it. I'm cutting my losses."
RidgeLine Logistics. The name resonated with Evelyn. It was one of the companies she had flagged in her initial research—a brilliant concept with disastrous execution. The market had dismissed it. Blackwood Corp had certainly dismissed it. But to her, it sounded like an opportunity. An undervalued asset with a fatal, but fixable, flaw: mismanagement.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. On the silent ride home in the back of the Rolls-Royce, the air between them felt different. The cold tension was still there, but it was now laced with something else.
"Your performance tonight," Damien said abruptly, staring out at the dark, winding roads, "was more than adequate."
It was the closest thing to a compliment she would ever get from him. Evelyn didn't reply. She wasn't thinking about her social victory over Morgan Sinclair. Her mind was buzzing, a plan taking shape with exhilarating clarity. The men at the party saw a failed startup. She saw a diamond in the rough.
She had her target. RidgeLine Logistics. That was where her five million dollars would go. That was where her own empire would begin.