He wasn't supposed to be here.
Another black-tie event filled with people who smiled with their teeth and lied with their eyes. Another night of shallow toasts, champagne flutes, and hollow praise for a man they feared more than they respected.
Damien Vale stood near the balcony doors of the Grand Marlowe ballroom, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand. His tuxedo was flawless, his expression unreadable.
He was a man made of ice and iron. And he was bored.
Until he saw her.
She wasn't in a gown. She didn't belong to the moneyed crowd swirling around him. No, she was one of the servers—black uniform, hair pulled back, eyes lowered with just the right amount of fake politeness.
Except... she didn't look fake.
There was something off about her. Not in a clumsy way—something real. Her posture was too proud, her lips too honest. And when a drunk socialite spilled a drink on her tray, dousing her arm and half her blouse, she didn't cower. She didn't flinch. She just looked up—briefly—and smiled.
It wasn't sweet. It was sharp. Like she was daring the world to try her.
That was when something inside him snapped.
Not loudly. Not visibly.
But quietly—like a thread had pulled tight deep in his chest and wouldn't release.
He stared. He watched. And he didn't look away.
He told himself to walk away. He didn't.
---
Twenty minutes later, he still hadn't moved.
She had disappeared behind the catering doors. He should've forgotten her.
Instead, he handed his glass to a passing waiter, murmured something into his assistant's ear, and left the party early.
The gala would forget him.
But he wouldn't forget her.
---
That night, he found her name.
By morning, he owned the catering company she worked for.
And Elena Rivers had no idea the man she barely noticed had just rewritten her life.