The invitation arrived wrapped in black velvet.
No name. No return address. Just a small wax seal pressed into the corner — the kind that whispered of old money and dangerous circles. When Ava unfolded the thick cardstock, the message inside was simple and elegant:
> A celebration of power, influence, and loyalty. Midnight. The Aurelius Club.
No bodyguards. No press. No masks.
She didn't need to ask who sent it.
Only one man in her life moved in shadows sharp enough to carve you open with just a party invitation: Damien Blackwood.
And he hadn't mentioned it.
That alone was telling.
---
Ava stood in front of her mirror that night, her dress a second skin of deep emerald satin. It hugged her curves like it had been sewn onto her body, the neckline plunging just enough to feel wicked, the slit at her thigh revealing flashes of soft skin when she moved.
Lisette had helped curl her hair, sweeping it over one shoulder, leaving her neck bare and vulnerable. A single diamond necklace rested at her collarbone, delicate and cold.
She looked like power.
But she felt like bait.
Downstairs, a sleek black car waited. The driver didn't speak. He opened the door, lowered his eyes, and shut it behind her like she was a queen on the way to her execution.
Ava watched the city blur past.
She didn't know what she'd find at the Aurelius Club. Secrets, probably. Danger, definitely. And Damien—inevitably.
But there was something else she couldn't name.
Something heavier than fear and far more seductive than safety.
---
The Aurelius Club was nestled into the edge of the city like a jewel buried in stone — private, impossible to find unless you already knew it existed. No signs. No bouncers. Just iron gates that creaked open at her arrival and swallowed the car whole.
Inside, the world shimmered.
Champagne flowed like water. Strings of low music drifted through the air. Women in dresses worth more than a year's rent glided past men with wolfish eyes and colder smiles. No cameras. No paparazzi. No rules.
It was beautiful.
And it was venomous.
Ava moved through the space like she belonged. She knew how to do this. Knew how to smile without revealing anything. Knew how to glide instead of walk. How to drink without getting drunk. How to flirt without promising a damn thing.
She'd learned from the best.
"Enjoying the spectacle?" a familiar voice murmured behind her.
She turned — slowly, deliberately — and found Damien watching her from the shadows. He wore all black: tailored suit, open collar, no tie. Understated. Lethal.
"Spectacle is a generous word," Ava said, raising her glass. "It feels more like a jungle dressed in perfume."
Damien's lips curved. "That's accurate."
She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't tell me about this."
"I didn't think you'd come."
"That's becoming a pattern, isn't it? You assume I'll run. I don't."
He stepped closer, and the space between them crackled.
"You're not the only one pretending to be brave," he said softly. "Everyone here is playing a part."
"And what's yours?"
His smile darkened. "The devil wearing a wedding band."
Ava stared at him for a heartbeat too long.
Then, "I saw Lucien earlier. He said not everyone in your house wants me safe."
Damien's jaw ticked. "Did he now?"
"Should I be worried?"
"You should always be worried," he said. "But not about me."
She swallowed hard. "Someone sent me a letter."
His gaze sharpened. "When?"
"Yesterday. No signature. Just six words."
She reached into her clutch and handed it to him. Damien scanned the message— "He's not your husband. He's your prison."
He didn't flinch.
But something behind his eyes turned to steel.
"I'll find out who sent this," he said, slipping the letter into his inner jacket pocket like it belonged to him. "No one threatens what's mine."
"Is that what I am?" she asked. "Yours?"
The air around them thickened.
"I married you, didn't I?" he said.
"That wasn't love," she whispered.
"No," he agreed. "It was war."
Their eyes locked. And for one dizzying second, Ava didn't know if she wanted to slap him or pull him into the darkest corner and finish what they'd started in the garden.
She never got the chance to do either.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She turned—expecting Lisette, or maybe Lucien.
But it wasn't someone she recognized.
A woman in red. Crimson silk, golden eyes. And a smile like broken glass.
"You must be the new Mrs. Blackwood," she purred. "I'm so glad he brought you. I was starting to think Damien didn't like to share his toys anymore."
Ava's spine straightened.
"And you are?"
"Call me Helena." The woman's smile didn't waver. "I used to be very close to your husband. Intimately so."
Damien's body stiffened beside Ava, just slightly.
Helena leaned in, eyes locked with Ava's. "Careful, darling. The last woman who loved him disappeared. And the one before that? Buried in diamonds. Literally."
She walked away like a serpent made of silk.
Ava turned to Damien. "Who the hell was that?"
"No one important," he said too quickly.
"Try again."
"She's… from the past. And she likes to stir blood."
"Did you kill her?"
Damien's gaze flicked to her, surprised.
She smiled. "It'd be very on-brand."
"No," he said darkly. "But I should have."
---
Later, on the rooftop terrace, Ava leaned over the railing, staring down at the city lights.
Damien joined her.
"You handled her well," he said quietly.
"I've dealt with sharper claws," Ava replied. "Though I have to admit—she's not wrong."
He looked at her.
"I am a prisoner," she said. "But I chose this cage."
"And now?" he asked. "Do you want out?"
She turned to him.
"I want the key."
Damien stepped closer, his hand brushing the curve of her hip, slow and possessive.
"You sure you can handle what you'll find once the door opens?"
"I can handle you," she whispered.
The wind shifted. Their faces were inches apart.
"I'm not safe," he said.
"I'm not asking you to be."
And then his lips met hers — a slow, brutal promise that they were already in too deep.
And neither of them planned on swimming to the surface.