The ballroom still reeked of scandal.
Two nights ago, Clara had walked out of The Corinthian with her head high while Rhea was dragged away in disgrace. The victory had been sweet, intoxicating even. But sweet victories, Clara knew, never lasted long in Damien's world.
And tonight… Damien was going to prove that.
The Second Gala
Clara adjusted the emerald silk gown hugging her figure. Alexander's hand rested lightly at the small of her back as they stepped into the same gilded ballroom that had been the scene of Rhea's public downfall.
But this gala was different—hosted by Damien himself. It wasn't just a charity auction. It was his stage, his chance to control the narrative after Rhea's scandal.
The air buzzed with tension. The city's elite were restless, eager for the next juicy headline.
Alexander leaned in. "You know this is a trap, don't you?"
Clara smiled faintly. "That's why I'm here."
The Unmasking
The evening began smoothly. Clara mingled, exchanged polite smiles, endured whispered gossip about her "engagement" to Alexander. Damien kept his distance—until he didn't.
Halfway through the evening, the lights dimmed. Damien walked onto the stage, a predator's smile on his lips. The crowd hushed.
"Two nights ago," he began, "this city witnessed betrayal within my own circle. But betrayal," his eyes found Clara in the crowd, "comes in many forms."
A murmur rippled through the guests.
"I believe in truth," Damien continued, "and in the value of knowing exactly who stands beside you."
The projector behind him flickered to life.
It started innocently enough—a charity photo from years ago. Clara, smiling, hair different, younger. Then another image appeared—her in a waitress uniform at an upscale restaurant. Then more: a grainy photo of her leaving a courthouse; a tabloid headline reading, "Heiress Bankrupt After Family Scandal"; a leaked police report naming her as the daughter of disgraced investor Charles Marlowe.
Gasps echoed through the ballroom.
Damien's voice was a blade. "Clara Marlowe. The fallen heiress. The woman who reinvented herself to slither back into high society under a false name."
Phones came out. Flashbulbs exploded. The whispers were knives in the dark.
The Humiliation
Clara stood frozen. Every instinct screamed to flee, but she forced her chin up. The crowd's eyes were hungry—some with pity, most with cruel delight.
Alexander's grip on her tightened. "We're leaving," he murmured.
But Clara shook her head. Not yet.
Damien stepped off the stage, closing the distance between them. "Tell me," he said softly enough that only she could hear, "did you think I wouldn't find out?"
Her pulse roared in her ears. "Did you think this would break me?"
His smile was cold. "No. I think it will remind everyone exactly who you are."
The Spark of Revenge
Clara let him walk away. She let the humiliation sink in just enough for the crowd to taste blood. And then—she struck.
She stepped onto the stage.
The murmurs grew. Some guests reached for champagne, anticipating more drama. Alexander followed close enough to protect her, but far enough to let her own the spotlight.
"Damien is right," Clara began, her voice carrying. "I am Clara Marlowe. I am the daughter of a man who made enemies. I lost everything because of lies, greed, and betrayal."
A hush fell over the room.
"But what Damien didn't tell you," she continued, her tone sharpening, "is that some of those betrayals… came from him."
Damien's jaw tightened. "Careful—"
She didn't let him finish. She pulled a slim USB drive from her clutch and held it up. "This," she said, "contains proof of an offshore account linked to Damien Kingsley. Proof of bribes, shell companies, and funds funneled through charities like this one."
Gasps turned into shocked silence.
"I wonder," Clara said sweetly, "what tonight's guests will think once they see exactly where their donations have been going."
The Counterattack
Within minutes, Felix—who was hidden in the crowd—sent the files to every major media outlet in the city. Screens lit up around the ballroom as journalists opened the documents. The whispers this time were different—faster, sharper, tinged with fear.
Damien's mask cracked. He stepped forward. "You're bluffing."
"Check your phone," Clara replied.
He did. His expression darkened instantly.
Turning the Crowd
Clara looked out over the stunned guests. "You wanted truth, Damien. Here it is. I didn't come back to slither into high society. I came back to burn it down—starting with the man who thought he could destroy me."
For a moment, no one moved. Then Alexander stepped onto the stage beside her, sliding his arm around her waist—not protectively, but like a man standing with his equal.
One of the older investors spoke first. "Is this true, Kingsley?"
Damien didn't answer. The silence was answer enough.
The Fallout
The gala dissolved into chaos. Some guests fled, others stayed to gawk. Reporters swarmed toward Clara, but Alexander shielded her as they made their way out.
In the limousine, Clara let herself breathe for the first time that night. Her hands were shaking, but her smile was razor-sharp.
Alexander studied her. "You just declared war."
Clara leaned back against the seat. "No, Alexander. I just won the first battle."
Later That Night
From her penthouse balcony, Clara watched the city burn with scandal. News anchors dissected the leak. Social media exploded with speculation. Damien's name trended alongside hers.
She sipped champagne, the humiliation of earlier already fading into the background. In its place was something darker, more dangerous: satisfaction.
She had been exposed—but she had made sure Damien bled for it.
And she wasn't done yet.