CHAPTER ONE — THE INVITATION
The city shimmered like a diamond scattered across the horizon — glass towers glinting in the sunset, every reflection whispering wealth, ambition, and secrets. From the 20th floor of Maison d'Elise, Lagos' most exclusive event design studio, Arielle Stone watched the skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass. Her reflection hovered in the window: polished, poised, and unbreakable.
Exactly the woman she had rebuilt from ashes.
Arielle adjusted the sleeve of her ivory blazer and returned to her sketches — delicate, minimalist lines for a royal wedding. Every detail had to exude precision. Emotion was something she reserved for her art now, not her heart.
"Miss Stone?" Her assistant, Mira, peeked in, holding a sleek black envelope. "A courier just arrived. He said this is confidential — from Voss Enterprises."
Arielle's pen stilled. For a heartbeat, she didn't move. The name Voss rippled through the room like static.
"Bring it here," she said, her tone calm, practiced. The pen rolled soundlessly across her desk.
The envelope was heavy, matte, edged in gold foil. She knew that insignia — Voss Enterprises, the empire that had quietly swallowed her father's company five years ago, leaving ruin and whispers of betrayal in its wake. She had never forgotten the man who stood at its head.
Damian Voss.
Tall. Impossibly composed. A predator disguised in a tuxedo. The man who'd once smiled at her over champagne, promising partnership — before he crushed everything her family had built.
Arielle broke the seal with deliberate care, her manicured nails glinting under the chandelier. Inside was a single sheet of ivory vellum, embossed in gold:
> Voss Enterprises requests your expertise for the design and coordination of the Voss Foundation Winter Gala — to be held in Paris this December.
Full creative control. Unlimited budget.
— Damian Voss
Arielle's lips curved, though it wasn't quite a smile. "Interesting," she murmured.
Mira hesitated. "Do you want me to decline on your behalf? I can send a formal—"
Arielle raised a hand, silencing her. She traced her thumb over Damian's signature — bold, confident, unmistakable.
Decline? No. She'd spent years watching her name fade from invitations like these. Now fate had sent her one in black and gold.
"No, Mira. Tell them I accept."
The assistant blinked. "Are you sure? I mean… it's him."
"I'm aware." Arielle stood, her heels clicking across the marble. "And if Damian Voss thinks I'll decorate his world without remembering what he destroyed, then he underestimates me all over again."
She turned toward the window, watching the lights of Victoria Island flicker to life — soft gold against the indigo dusk. Beneath their beauty, the city pulsed with quiet ruthlessness. Much like him.
For years she had sworn never to let her emotions dictate her moves again. But as she gazed out, a dangerous thought began to bloom: what if this invitation wasn't a trap, but an opportunity?
To reclaim her power.
To remind Damian Voss who she was — and what she'd become.
Mira spoke again, quieter this time. "Should I prepare a flight schedule?"
Arielle's voice softened. "Not yet. Let him wait a little. Men like Damian don't like to wait — it teaches them patience."
When Mira left, the silence returned, thick and thoughtful. Arielle exhaled and leaned against her desk. Her eyes drifted over the invitation once more. Paris. December. A gala under his name.
Her mind painted it instantly — chandeliers dripping crystals, orchestral music floating through the air, gowns of silk and power. The world Damian ruled effortlessly. The world she once belonged to.
Her pulse quickened — not from fear, but from something sharper, glittering at the edge of her control.
> "You destroyed my family's name," she whispered to the empty room. "Now you'll pay me to make yours shine."
A slow smile curved her lips.
Outside, thunder rolled over the Atlantic — distant, promising.
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Across the city, in a penthouse carved from black marble and glass, Damian Voss closed the lid of his laptop and leaned back in his chair.
"Did she respond?" he asked without looking up.
His assistant, Jonah, checked his phone. "Not yet, sir."
Damian's jaw tightened, then relaxed. "She will."
He rose, the faintest smirk ghosting his lips as he stared out over the same skyline Arielle watched miles away. "Arielle Stone never walks away from a challenge. She only turns it into art."
He poured himself a glass of whiskey, amber glinting against the city lights.
> "Let's see what kind of masterpiece she creates… when I'm the one watching."
The storm outside deepened, lightning flashing across the horizon — a silent applause for the game about to begin.
Author: hi guys it's Eloura 😘 😘 😘 😘.....this is the start, suspense, what's gonna happen next.....stay tuned ☺️
Xoxo Eloura 😘 😘