Damian's POV
The chandelier light spills across the marble floor, glinting off the champagne glasses and jeweled gowns. The room smells of wealth-polished oak, perfume worth more than cars, cigars rolled by trembling hands in Havana.
Asha looks like she wants to burn it all to the ground.
Her arm rests stiffly in mine as I lead her through the gathering. She keeps her chin high, but I can feel the faint tension in her muscles, the way her breath hitches every time someone's gaze lingers on us. She doesn't belong here, not because she lacks the beauty-God knows she outshines every woman in this room-but because she doesn't want to.
She hates this world. My world.
Which is precisely why I brought her.
"Smile, sweetheart," I murmur close to her ear as another guest approaches. "These people will devour you if they smell hesitation."
Her lips press into a line. "Then maybe I'll let them."
I chuckle, low and dangerous. "Not an option. You're mine now. Remember the contract."
Her glare could slice steel. But when a senator's wife drifts near, I feel her spine straighten. She plays the part, polite, graceful, her hand still curled in mine though I know she'd rather rip it away.
I make introductions, watching the way people's eyes flicker between us. Some with curiosity, some with envy, some with fear. They all know who I am. And now they know who she is-the woman who signed herself to me.
"My fiancée," I say smoothly, the word rolling off my tongue like silk. Her sharp inhale is almost lost beneath the hum of conversation. Almost.
When the senator's wife drifts away, Asha leans in, voice a sharp whisper. "Fiancée? That was not in the contract."
I smile, sipping champagne I don't even taste. "Relax. Words are flexible. And appearances matter."
Her eyes flash, but she says nothing. She knows better than to start a war in public.
Good girl.
Later, as I shake hands with a business associate and discuss mergers that will tip the market in my favor, I catch Asha drifting near the edge of the circle, her gaze distant. She looks out of place in her emerald gown, though it clings to her like sin itself. I brought her here not just to prove a point to the world, but to remind her of something vital: she doesn't escape me by standing still. She escapes me by obeying.
I excuse myself from the associate with a clap on his shoulder, stepping toward her. She doesn't see me at first. She's staring at the chandelier, lost.
"You're bored," I murmur when I'm close enough.
Her head snaps toward me, fire in her eyes. "I don't belong here."
"You belong where I say you belong." My voice is soft, but the weight of it makes her swallow hard. "And right now, that's here."
She shakes her head, whispering harshly, "You treat me like a pawn. Like none of this matters."
"It matters more than you know." My gaze sweeps the crowd. "Every handshake, every smile tonight is another brick in the wall closing in on your father. He won't see it until it's too late."
Her brows knit. "What does my father have to do with-"
I press a finger to her lips, silencing her. "Not here."
Confusion and anger burn across her face, but I don't explain. Not yet. Let her wonder. Let the questions eat at her.
By the time we leave, the night has worn heavy on her shoulders. I can feel it in the silence between us in the car, in the way she presses herself against the door as though the distance could save her. It almost amuses me. Almost.
When we arrive back at the estate, she storms ahead, heels clicking against the marble like gunshots. I follow at an easy pace, letting her fury lead us both.
The moment we're alone in the grand hall, she whirls on me. "You think you can drag me around like some... trophy? Parade me like a prize you won?"
I smirk. "You signed the contract."
Her fists clench at her sides. "Stop hiding behind that damned contract! I may have signed, but I didn't sign away my soul."
I step closer, slow, deliberate. "Didn't you?"
Her breath hitches. "You're insufferable."
"And you're intoxicating."
Her lips part, caught off guard by the admission. I see the crack in her armor, the way her heart betrays her even as her eyes blaze with hatred.
"You don't mean that," she whispers.
"I mean every word," I murmur, my hand lifting to brush a strand of fire-red hair from her cheek. "You think I don't notice the way you fight me? That every time you glare, every time you argue, you only make me want to cage you tighter?"
Her voice trembles, but not with fear. "You can't own me, Damian."
"Sweetheart," I whisper, leaning down, "I already do."
She shakes her head, eyes bright with fury and something she refuses to name. "You're a monster."
"Maybe," I admit softly, inches from her lips now. "But I'm your monster."
She draws in a sharp breath, ready to hurl another insult, but I don't let her.
My mouth crashes against hers.
The kiss is violent at first, clashing, fire and ice colliding. She shoves at my chest, but my hand grips her waist, anchoring her to me. She tastes of defiance, of something forbidden I swore I'd never want.
And yet I can't stop.
For a moment she fights me. Then, against her own will, I feel her falter, feel the war inside her shift. Her lips part, her breath tangling with mine. Desire coils in the air, thick and dangerous.
When I finally pull back, her chest is heaving, her eyes wide and conflicted. She looks at me as if I've stolen something from her, and perhaps I have.
"You can hate me," I murmur, my thumb brushing her lower lip, swollen from my kiss. "You can fight me every step of the way. But don't lie to yourself, Asha. You felt that too."
Her silence is louder than any denial.
And as she turns away, shaking, I realize something terrifying.
I kissed her to prove a point, to remind her she's mine.
But the truth?
It didn't feel like victory. It felt like surrender.
