The elevator ride down from the 68th floor was a descent into a different reality.
The mirrored walls of the cabin reflected us back in high definition: the broad-shouldered, dark-haired titan and the shimmering, blonde woman at his side.
We looked like a power couple carved from marble, but the space between us was thick with a tension that felt more like a battlefield than a romance.
I could feel the heat radiating off Damon's body, a stark contrast to the chilled, filtered air of the elevator.
As the doors slid open to the private underground garage, a black Cadillac Escalade was already idling, its headlights cutting through the dim concrete space. George, the driver, held the door open with a practiced, stoic grace. As I slid into the cool, hand-stitched leather interior, I caught George's eye for a fraction of a second. There was a flicker of sympathy there. A look that said he'd seen many people enter Damon Thorne's orbit, but few who looked quite as defiant as I did.
Damon climbed in beside me, his presence immediately shrinking the cabin. The scent of his sandalwood cologne, mixed with the faint, sharp aroma of the bourbon he'd been drinking, was intoxicating in the enclosed space.
"The rules for tonight are simple," Damon said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum in the very floorboards of the car as we pulled out into the rain-slicked streets of Chicago.
The city lights blurred against the glass, streaks of neon yellow and white racing past us like fallen stars.
"You stay at my side. You don't take a drink from anyone but me or a server I've approved. And you do not, under any circumstances, talk about your real past."
"I'm not ashamed of where I come from, Damon," I said, my voice tight. I looked out the window at the blurred shapes of people huddled under bus stops—people who were me just six hours ago. "My mother worked three jobs to keep me in school. My father... well, he showed me exactly the kind of man I never want to be with. That struggle made me."
"It made you brave, yes. But in that room, it makes you a target,"
Damon countered, his coffee-brown eyes hard and unyielding. "The people at this gala, the board members, the rivals, the old-money socialites…they are scavengers. They are looking for a crack in the armor, a single thread they can pull to unravel the Thorne Industries image. If they find out you were a struggling assistant living in a walk-up with a leaking radiator, they will tear you apart to get to me."
He leaned closer, his muscular frame looming over me.
"Tonight, you are Elena Vance, the daughter of a private investor who liquidated his assets and moved to Zurich. You were educated at Le Rosey and have spent the last three years traveling through Europe. You are sophisticated, untouchable, and the only woman who could finally capture my interest."
"So I'm a lie," I whispered, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. I thought of Maya in the diner, and my mother in the drafty ward. This felt like a betrayal of everything they were.
"You're a masterpiece," he corrected. His gaze dropped to the silver silk covering my knee, his hand hovering over the fabric as if he wanted to touch the curve of my leg before he caught himself and clenched his fist.
"Just remember: we are a united front. If I put my arm around you, you lean in. If I whisper to you, you smile like I'm the only man in the room. You have to be the most convincing thing I've ever bought."
The Union League Club was a fortress of old-money Chicago, a dark-stone building that looked like it had been designed to keep the rest of the world out. As the Escalade pulled up to the curb, the flashes of cameras began to pop like miniature explosions against the dark sky.
"Ready?" Damon asked. For a split second, the icy mask slipped, and I saw a flash of something that looked almost like concern.
"No," I admitted, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Good. It keeps you sharp."
He stepped out into the rain of reporters, He reached back, his large hand enveloping mine, and pulled me out of the car.
The moment my silver heel hit the pavement, the noise erupted.
"Mr. Thorne! Who is the lady?"
"Damon, is the engagement official?"
"Is she the one behind the merger delay?"
Damon didn't answer. He pulled me close to his side, his arm sliding around my waist. His palm was warm against the bare skin of my back where the dress dipped low, and I felt a jolt of electricity that made my breath hitch.
He shielded me from the crowd, his 6'3" frame acting as a literal barrier between me and the prying lenses.
Inside, the ballroom was a sea of excess. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting a golden glow over hundreds of people in tuxedos and gowns that cost more than a year of my mother's healthcare.
The air was thick with the scent of lilies, expensive cigars, and the metallic tang of old money.
As we entered, the room didn't just go quiet; it inhaled. The collective gaze of Chicago's elite shifted toward us, heavy and judgmental. I felt like a gazelle walking into a room full of lions.
"Damon, darling! You've finally arrived."
A woman in her sixties, draped in pearls that looked heavy enough to sink a ship, glided toward us. Her eyes were like shards of ice, scanning me with a terrifying, clinical speed.
"This is Julianne Thorne," Damon whispered near my ear, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. "My aunt. She's the one you have to watch. She smells blood in the water before the shark does."
"And who is this lovely creature?" Julianne asked, her voice like honey poured over broken glass.
She didn't wait for an answer, leaning in closer to me, her perfume cloying and sweet. "You look familiar, dear. Have we met at the opera? Or perhaps at the yacht club in Monaco? I spent my summers there, and I simply never forget a face."
I felt the weight of the lie pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Damon's hand tightened slightly on my waist a silent, physical command to stay the course.
"Actually," I began, my voice clear and steady, surprising even myself.
"Damon prefers to keep me tucked away. He says I'm his best-kept secret, and he's never been very good at sharing his toys."
Damon's jaw tightened, and I saw a flicker of something…was it amusement or pride?..darken his eyes.
"A secret indeed," Julianne mused, her gaze narrowing as she looked at the way Damon was holding me. "Though secrets in this family have a funny way of coming out in the wash, don't they? I hope you're a fast swimmer, Elena. The Thorne family tends to drown the people who can't keep up."
As she moved away, Damon leaned down, his lips brushing my temple. "Well played. But that was just the appetizer. My board members are coming, and they are much less polite than my aunt."
I went to reach for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, my nerves finally fraying, but Damon's hand shot out, catching my wrist in a firm, possessive grip.
"I told you," he murmured, his eyes turning to dark espresso in the dim light. "Only from me."
He took a glass from a server he recognized and handed it to me. As our fingers brushed, a spark of pure, unadulterated heat jumped between us. For a second, the ballroom disappeared. The music, the clinking of glasses, the whispers…..it all faded. It was just the two of us, caught in a web of our own making.
I realized then that the most dangerous part of this contract wasn't the lies or the board members. It was the way my body reacted to his touch.
Then, the moment shattered.
A man with a sneer and a sharp, tailored suit approached us, holding a tablet and a smirk that made my skin crawl.
"Thorne. Interesting choice of a date. She's certainly an improvement on the usual." He turned his eyes to me, looking at me like I was a piece of meat. "Tell me, darling, does he treat you better than the last one? Or does he still have that habit of discarding things once they stop being... useful?"
Damon's entire body went rigid. The warmth left his touch, replaced by a cold, murderous aura that made the air feel like ice. He stepped in front of me, his muscular frame tensing as if he were ready to strike.
"Careful, Marcus," Damon said, his voice a low, lethal growl. "You're speaking about my fiancée."
"Fiancée?" Marcus laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "Is that what we're calling the girl who replaced Claire? I wonder if she knows what happened to her."
I looked from the stran
ger to Damon, my heart sinking. Who was Claire? And what did Marcus mean by what happened to her?