The gown felt like armor.
Elena stood before the full-length mirror in her new bedroom, staring at the reflection she barely recognized. The dress had been delivered that morning—sleek, midnight black, hugging her figure in a way that was both elegant and daring. A glittering diamond necklace rested against her collarbone, its cold weight a reminder of the man who had chosen it.
Her hair, styled by a professional Damian had sent, was pulled into soft waves that framed her face. Her makeup was flawless, her lips painted a deep red that looked almost dangerous.
She looked every inch the billionaire's wife.
And yet, beneath the satin and jewels, her stomach twisted with dread.
A knock sounded at the door. Before she could answer, it opened.
Damian strode in, dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. His presence filled the room instantly, commanding, suffocating. He paused, his storm-gray eyes raking over her from head to toe.
Elena's cheeks heated under his gaze, though she refused to look away.
"Well?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "Do I pass your inspection?"
A slow smirk curved his lips. "Barely."
Her eyes narrowed. "Barely?"
He stepped closer, adjusting the diamond necklace around her throat as though it belonged to him—and by extension, so did she. "You look stunning, Elena. But don't let it get to your head. Tonight, you are not here to shine. You are here to play your role. Smile. Nod. Stay silent unless spoken to. Understand?"
Her pulse jumped as his fingers brushed lightly against her skin, but she forced herself to hold steady. "I'm not some mannequin for you to parade around."
"You are whatever I say you are," Damian replied smoothly, his smirk never faltering.
Her jaw clenched, words of defiance burning on her tongue, but before she could speak, he turned and offered his arm. "Shall we?"
For a long moment, she considered refusing. But then she remembered her family, remembered the stakes. With a bitter exhale, she slipped her hand into his arm.
His muscles were taut beneath the fabric, hard and unyielding. Just like the man himself.
The gala was held at the most luxurious hotel in the city. Crystal chandeliers glittered above, casting light across the marble floor. Waiters moved gracefully through the crowd, offering champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The air buzzed with laughter, whispers, and the faint strains of a string quartet.
All conversation seemed to hush the moment Damian Blackwood entered. Heads turned, eyes widened, and whispers rippled through the room like waves.
There he is… The Devil in a Suit…And who is she?His wife? I didn't even know he was married…She's gorgeous… but she doesn't look like one of us.
Elena felt the weight of their stares, the burn of their judgment. Her grip on Damian's arm tightened unconsciously, though she kept her chin lifted, her expression carefully composed.
Damian, of course, looked utterly unbothered. His stride was confident, his presence commanding, as though the entire room belonged to him—and perhaps it did.
"Elena," he murmured under his breath, his lips barely moving. "Smile."
She shot him a glare. "Don't order me around."
His eyes flicked to hers, sharp and warning. "Play your part."
Reluctantly, she curved her lips into a polite smile, though inside she burned.
They were immediately approached by a cluster of guests—men in tailored suits, women dripping in diamonds.
"Mr. Blackwood," one of them greeted warmly, though his tone carried an undercurrent of fear. "And… Mrs. Blackwood, I presume?"
Damian's arm tightened around hers. "Yes. My wife."
The word rolled off his tongue so effortlessly, so smoothly, it sent a strange jolt through her chest. She forced herself to maintain her smile, even as the group's eyes swept over her with thinly veiled curiosity.
Questions followed. Where had she come from? How had they met? What did she do?
Damian deflected each one with calculated ease, his hand possessively resting at the small of her back. Elena said little, playing the part he had assigned her, though her silence was laced with frustration.
At one point, a tall brunette in a shimmering silver gown approached, her red lips curving in a knowing smile.
"Damian," she purred, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. "It's been far too long. You never mentioned you'd taken a wife."
Elena felt Damian's body stiffen ever so slightly. His smirk remained, but his eyes were cold. "Business comes first, Charlotte. You of all people should know that."
Charlotte's gaze shifted to Elena, sharp and appraising. "She's lovely," she said sweetly, though the venom beneath the compliment was unmistakable.
"Indeed," Damian replied, his arm tightening around Elena's waist. "And mine."
The possessiveness in his voice sent a strange shiver through Elena—half irritation, half something she refused to name.
Charlotte lingered a moment longer before retreating, her smile brittle.
Elena exhaled slowly. "Old flame?" she muttered under her breath.
Damian's smirk deepened. "Jealous already?"
She shot him a glare. "Hardly."
"Good," he said smoothly. "Because jealousy is a weakness. And my wife cannot afford weaknesses."
Her jaw clenched. "I'm not your possession."
His lips brushed her ear as he leaned closer, his voice low and dangerous. "Tonight, you are whatever I need you to be."
Her heart slammed against her ribs, fury and something else—something she refused to name—burning in her chest.
The night dragged on in a blur of champagne, whispers, and forced smiles. Elena played her role, though every second felt like a battle.
It wasn't until they were back in the limousine, the city lights flashing past the windows, that she finally let her composure crack.
"You treated me like I was some trophy," she snapped, turning to him. "Some object you could parade around to show your power."
Damian's gaze remained fixed out the window. "That's exactly what you are."
Her breath caught, fury surging. "You're vile."
Finally, he turned to face her, his gray eyes sharp as steel. "You agreed to this, Elena. Don't forget that. You wanted to save your family? This is the price. My world is ruthless. Either learn to play the game, or get crushed."
Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I won't be crushed. And I won't be your pawn."
For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then Damian leaned closer, his voice a dangerous whisper.
"Careful, Elena. You're not in control here. I am."
She swallowed hard, her pulse racing, but she refused to look away.
"Maybe," she whispered back, her voice trembling but steady. "But even devils fall, Damian. And I won't go down quietly."
His smirk returned, dark and predatory. "We'll see."