Elle's Pov
The gates are open when I arrive, but the atmosphere is off. The gala is only an hour away, yet everything feels out of control.
I step out of the cab. The sun hits my eyes as a group of volunteers hurry around with clipboards and crates. A delivery truck blocks half the driveway. Someone is yelling about missing centerpieces and I feel it immediately. The chaos she leaves behind is like perfume.
My stomach tightens as I push through the lobby almost running. Staff spot me, some freeze, while others step away as if I'm radioactive.
"Good morning, ma'am," someone offers, but I lift a hand.
"Where is she?"
No one answers. They know. And they're scared.
I head straight to the banquet hall. I can hear her voice before I open the doors; sharp, dismissive, and in full command.
"I don't care what my daughter approved. Triple the VIP seating. These people are not sitting with the regular guests."
My teeth ache from how tightly I'm grinding them. I push the doors open.
She stands in the middle of the hall, elegant as always, effortlessly dismantling months of work like she's rearranging furniture in her home. Some staff hover around her, obeying orders they clearly hate.
"Mom," I say.
She smiles like she's delighted to see me. "Finally. You look tired already."
"I wonder why."
She turns back to the decorator. "Raise the lights. These centerpieces are tacky. Remove them."
"Stop," I snap and everyone stops moving. "Put everything on pause," I order, louder this time.
She raises a brow. "You're being dramatic. I'm improving what was... uninspired."
"You're tearing apart months of my hardwork!" I fire back.
She chuckles softly. "It needed improvement."
I step closer, lowering my voice. "This is my event. Not yours."
"Well. I suppose you don't need maternal guidance anymore."
My chest tightens, but I don't take the bait.
"Everyone," I repeat, louder, "take ten minutes."
They rush out like they've been waiting for permission to breathe.
Mother's eyes gleam. "You're overreacting."
"And you're leaving," I say, turning away before I explode.
As I turn, the front doors open again.
Damian walks in, wearing a charcoal suit. The low tap of his leather shoes echoes in the empty hall. He looks composed until his gaze finds me. My heartbeat trips; traitor. He's annoyingly attractive.
Mother whistles. "Oh dear. Trouble."
I ignore her. Damian Blackwell is crossing the hall toward me, and I have no idea how to face him after last night.
He stops close enough that I catch the scent of cedar and smoke in his cologne; subtle, expensive, unmistakably him. "Marielle."
Marielle? Wow. That feels heavy.
"Mr. Blackwell."
He surveys the hall. "I heard there were complications."
"I've got it handled."
His gaze shifts right past me to my mom. "And she is?"
"My mom."
His eyebrows lift. "Your mother." A slow inhale. "You didn't think that was worth mentioning."
"It wasn't relevant."
His voice rises. "One wrong word or move from her and my company bleeds for it. I can't afford your mistakes, Elle. Don't you understand?"
"I understand everything," I cut in. "Including what does and doesn't require your alarm."
Okay, he's yelling. At me. Fantastic.
I breathe slowly trying to be calm as possible but my palms are damp and my pulse thumps hard. "Like I said, I've got it handled."
It seems like he didn't hear a word of what I just said because he laughs, very sarcastically. "Was she the Camila's imaginary 'emergency boyfriend'?"
He groans as he rubbs his forehead in anger, cursing under his breath. "Motherfuck..."
"Excuse me? What was that?!" Right now, I'm on the edge of explosion. "You know what, I'm moving on from this conversation."
"Of course you are. Accountability isn't optional just because you're overwhelmed."
That stings, and he knows it.
Then, his voice drops, more intimate. "About last night…"
Every muscle in my body goes tense. "I need to focus on the gala. Last night was a mistake. And it never happened. Right now, all I care about is my guests arriving in less than an hour."
His jaw clenches. Silence. Then: "I can't pretend last night didn't happen. I need to tell you..."
"Well, I can pretend, and I will. I already left it behind. You should too."
There's something in his expression: frustration, maybe embarrassment. He nods once, stepping back into professional distance.
"Understood. Where do you need me?"
I exhale slowly, grateful for the task distraction. "Check the presentation screens. They keep glitching. Fix it."
He nods and walks off. I watch him go. He looks steady but I notice the slight tremor in his hand. He hides it quickly, but not quickly enough. I don't have time to think about that.
Mother glides beside me, purring like a satisfied cat. "Well, if that's the fiancé, the media can never capture his presence properly. Gorgeous!" She sighs dramatically. "I wouldn't mind climbing that..."
"Mom!" I choke out.
"Relax, child. I'm just appreciating the view. He has a presence and admires authority. Age is irrelevant when presence commands… which is why he looked at me first, not you."
"Oh my God," I mutter, walking away.
She follows, heels silent on the floor; silent in a way that feels predatory. "He's not your usual type. Your past choices tended toward softness. This one… is iron. I wonder, did he choose you for your heart… or for your usefulness?"
I whirl around. "Leave him out of this."
"The fact that you're protecting him tells me everything. Darling, you care for that man. Perhaps more than is wise."
"Oh, please!" I say waving it off. I don't flinch. I don't blink. I don't give her a damn thing.
Martha shouts from across the hall: "Miss Elle! Three VIPs arrived early!"
Crisis number seventeen. I turn away from Mother. "On it! Bring my dress to the office!"
I stride forward, focused on the crisis. But I almost bump into Damian again.
"Elle... please let's talk."
Too bad, there's no time for that now.