Chapter 5 Dance of defiance

Elara pov

The music rises, slow and sweet, seeping into my bones as I step into the center of the room. Damian doesn’t move from his chair, but his gaze sharpens, like a predator’s attention fixed on its prey. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but I force my spine straight, and my chin high. If I must do this, I’ll do it on my terms.

I start to move, letting the beat guide me—hips swaying, arms rising, every motion deliberate and defiant. My dress catches the light, sending diamond-bright sparks over the marble. I watch him watching me, the way his lips part, the way his fingers curl against the armrest as if he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for me.

“Is this what you wanted?” I challenge, letting my voice float over the music, sultry and sharp.

His eyes roam over me, slow and thorough, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “I wanted to see if you’d break. Seems like I underestimated you.”

I arch my back, rolling my shoulders, letting the silk slip down one arm as if by accident. “You always do.”

A dangerous smile tugs at his lips. “You dance like you’re trying to win a war.”

“Maybe I am.” I twirl, letting my hair spread out, and the music possess me. Each step draws a little more confidence, a little more power. I lock my eyes with him as I turn, refusing to look away.

“Careful, Elara,” Damian’s voice is a low, amused warning. “You might make me think you enjoy this.”

I circle closer, trailing my fingers along the cool edge of the table, close enough to see the gold in his eyes. “You’re the one watching. Maybe you’re the one enjoying yourself.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze unblinking. “You surprise me,” he admits, voice husky. “Most people would have frozen or ran.”

I stop, breathless, a sheen of sweat on my skin. “I’m not most people.”

His eyes flicker with dark amusement and something more dangerous—respect, maybe, or hunger. “No. You’re not. But let’s see how long you can keep dancing.”

I move again, letting the music take me one final time, pushing every ounce of defiance and grace into each motion. Every twist, every flick of my wrist, is a message: I am not broken. Not by him or by anyone.

When the music fades, I hold his gaze, chest heaving, refusing to look away first. The silence between us is electric, thrumming with something neither of us can name.

Damian carefully puts his glass down with a soft click that echoes through the silence.

"Magnificent," he says, rising from his chair with grace. "Absolutely magnificent."

I hold my breath, waiting for him to produce the money, to honor his end of our degrading bargain. Instead, he walks to his desk and pulls out a leather folder thick with papers.

"I've changed my mind," he says, his voice taking on that businesslike tone I've come to dread.

My heart stops. "What?"

"Five thousand isn't enough." He sets the folder on the table between us. "Not for what I really want."

"We had a deal," I say through gritted teeth.

"And now I'm offering you a better one." His smile is sharp enough to cut. "Six months. A contract marriage. Complete with all the luxury and security you could ever want."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "You're insane."

"Am I?" He circles me slowly, like a shark scenting blood. "Think about it, Elara. Six months as my wife. No more debts, no more struggling, no more looking over your shoulder for Gallo's men. Just comfort, security, and more money than you've ever dreamed of."

"I won't marry you," I spit. "You're my enemy. You destroyed my life."

"And now I'm offering to rebuild it." He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Think of it as a business arrangement. Nothing more."

"There has to be a catch."

His smile widens. "Of course there is. You follow my rules. You attend the events I require. You play the part of the devoted wife. And most importantly—you never betray me."

I laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. "You want me to pretend to love the man who ruined me?"

"I want you to be smart enough to recognize an opportunity when you see one." His voice drops to a whisper. "Unless you'd prefer to go back to your eviction notices and loan sharks?"

The reminder of my desperate situation stings. I turn away from him, my mind racing. Six months in his world. Six months with access to his home, his office, his secrets.

Six months to gather the evidence I need to destroy him.

"What's in it for you?" I ask, still not facing him.

"Insurance," he says simply. "A guarantee that you'll never be able to hurt me. And perhaps..." His voice carries a note of something darker. "The satisfaction of having tamed Chicago's most stubborn journalist."

I whirl around, fury blazing in my chest. "You'll never tame me."

"Won't I?" He tilts his head, studying me with those calculating eyes. "You're already dancing for me, darling. How much further of a fall could it possibly be?"

The words are meant to wound, and they succeed. But beneath the humiliation, something else stirs. A cold, calculating anger that crystallizes into purpose.

He thinks he's won. He thinks he's buying my silence, my compliance, my soul. What he doesn't realize is that he's giving me exactly what I need—access.

Access to his world, his secrets, his vulnerabilities.

"Fine," I say, the word tasting like poison on my tongue. "Six months."

His eyebrows rise slightly. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. "But I have conditions."

"You're hardly in a position to negotiate."

"Aren't I?" I take a step closer, invading his personal space the way he's invaded mine. "You want a compliant wife for your little charade? Then you'll give me what I need to play the part convincingly."

He considers this, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "What did you have in mind?"

"A new wardrobe. Access to a stylist. Etiquette coaching if necessary." I pause, letting the next words carry extra weight. "And freedom to move within your world without you hovering."

"Careful, little bird," he murmurs. "That sounds almost like you're planning something."

I smile, the expression as sharp as his own. "I'm planning to be the perfect wife, Damian. Isn't that what you want?"

For a moment, something flickers in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or recognition of the game we're now playing. Then his smile returns, predatory and pleased.

"Perfect," he purrs, reaching for the contract. "Then let's make it official."

As I take the pen from his hand, our fingers brush. The contact sends an unwanted jolt through me, but I don't let it show. Instead, I sign my name with steady strokes, sealing my fate.

He thinks he's caged me. He thinks he's won.

What he doesn't know is that I plan to use these six months to gather everything I need to bring his empire crashing down. Every dinner party, every business meeting, every unguarded moment will be an opportunity to collect evidence.

I'll play the part of the devoted wife. I'll smile and charm his associates and pretend to worship at the altar of his success.

And when the six months are over, I'll have enough ammunition to destroy him completely.

The contract is signed, but this isn't surrender.

It's a strategy.