Chapter 3 A taste of his world

POV: Elara

The heavy oak door slams behind me with a finality that rattles down my spine. I’m inside Damian’s private lounge now, shoved by one of his men as though I were a package dropped on a doorstep.

The air in here feels different. Colder, quieter, richer. The lounge is dimly lit with golden lamps. A massive floor-to-ceiling window stretches across the far wall.

And then there’s him.

Damian Cole. The man every newspaper calls ruthless, brilliant, untouchable. He sits with casual arrogance on a sleek leather sofa, his mask discarded, revealing sharp cheekbones and unreadable eyes. His posture screams control—one ankle resting on his knee, fingers lazily swirling the liquid in his glass.

I should run. Scream. Demand to leave. But running would mean defeat. And defeat means I never claw my way back from the hole he dug me when he ended my career.

I swallow hard. If I bolt, they’ll drag me back. Better to risk humiliation than be tossed to the wolves.

I smooth my dress, lift my chin, and walk forward.

He watches me like a predator tracking prey.

“You ruined me.” The words scrape out from my mouth, raw and unfiltered, before I can stop them.

He glances up at me. His gaze is ice. “Correction. You ruined yourself. I only gave the world a little… nudge.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snapped. “One call from you, and my story was ash before it even hit print. That’s not a nudge. That’s a slaughter.”

A faint smirk touches his lips. “Journalism is war. You went to battle without armor. Don’t blame the soldier who shot straighter.”

My fists clench. He talks about lives like they’re chess pieces. Like mine never mattered.

“You don’t get to define me,” I say, forcing steel into my tone. “I’m not the same girl you silenced.”

He studies me for a long beat, then leans back in his chair, casual, calculating. “No. You’re not. The girl I remember wore cheap blazers and carried a notebook like it was a shield. This one wears sequins and sells illusions.”

Heat floods my face. I hate that he’s not entirely wrong. I hate that he can strip me bare with a sentence.

“Better a liar than a tyrant,” I fire back.

His laugh is low, dangerous. “You think I’m a tyrant? Darling, I’m the cure. The disease is everyone else. They crawl over each other for scraps of power. I simply take what they beg me to own.”

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re naïve.” He takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “But I’ll admit—you’re not boring.”

The word lands heavier than it should. Not boring. It sounds like a compliment, but I know better. Interest from a man like Damian is a wild trap.

I step closer, forcing myself into his space, even as my heart threatens to pound out of my chest. “You wanted me here for a reason. So stop circling and say it.”

His smirk fades into something colder. He sets down his glass with deliberate care, then rises.

He’s tall. The kind of tall that makes the air feel thinner. He stalks toward me slowly, like he has all night.

“You intrigue me,” he says finally. “And I don’t like being intrigued. It’s inefficient and distracting.” He stops inches from me, voice dropping. “So tell me, Elara. Why are you really here?”

The sound of my name on his lips nearly buckles my knees. He remembers my name.

“Do you always crash parties you weren’t invited to,” he drawls, “or am I supposed to feel special tonight?”

His voice is silk dipped in poison.

“I wasn’t crashing,” I say, forcing calm. “I was hired. Entertainment.”

His brow arches. “Entertainment.” He tastes the word, lets it linger like he’s savoring a lie. “That’s cute. Which agency?”

I blink. He knows I don’t belong. Of course he does.

“Independent,” I bluff.

“Ah.” He leans forward, setting his glass on the table. “So you’re a freelancer. Interesting. I don’t recall freelancers slipping past my security.” His eyes glitter. “Try again.”

My stomach tightens, but I refuse to let him see fear. “Not everyone here is on your guest list. Half of them came to drink your champagne and whisper about you behind your back. Why not me?”

For a moment, silence. Then—he laughs. Low, dangerous, unexpected.

“You have teeth,” he murmurs. “But then again that was why you tried to pursue a story about me like a mouse.”

Heat rises in my chest. “I wasn’t a mouse. I was telling the truth.”

“Truth,” he repeats with disdain. “Such a pretty word. Do you know what truth gets you in my world? A bullet. A smear campaign. A grave no one visits.”

I lift my chin. “Maybe in your world. Not in mine.”

His eyes darken. “You’re in my world now.”

The silence between us tightens, electric.

I step back. “I should go.”

But he’s faster. He rises, tall and lethal, blocking the door before I even reach it. He doesn’t touch me—doesn’t need to. His presence is enough.

“If you needed money,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper that coils around me, “you should’ve just asked.”

My breath catches.

“But then again…” His gaze rakes over me, sharp as glass. “…you’d rather sell yourself than admit weakness, wouldn’t you?”

The words sting, sharp as claws. My hands curl into fists, nails biting my palms.

“You don’t know me,” I hissed.

“Oh, I know you better than you think.” His smile is cold. “Desperate people always smell the same.”

I want to slap him. I want to scream. Instead, I lock my jaw and glare back, refusing to bend. “Then maybe you should take a closer look,” I shot back. “Because I’m not desperate. And I’m not for sale.”

For the first time, something flickers in his expression—surprise. Then… amusement.

A sudden commotion shatters the air.

Shouts. Crashes. The thundering of feet.

I glance toward the windowed door. Outside, chaos erupts in the penthouse below—paparazzi swarming past security, cameras flashing like lightning. Their voices rise in a storm of shouted questions.

Damian’s head snaps toward the door, expression darkening. Adrian bursts in, breathless. “Sir—the press. They forced their way past security. Cameras everywhere.”

Panic sears through me. If the paparazzi see me here—me, the disgraced journalist dressed as a party girl in Damian Cade’s private study—it’ll be my execution.

Damian steps closer, his shadow merging with mine.

“Looks like your little secret won’t stay hidden,” he says, eyes gleaming. “They’ll find you in minutes.”

I turn to the door, but his hand slams against the frame beside my head, caging me in without touching me.