CHAPTER 6

.

.

.

The limousine glided through the city like a black phantom, its tinted windows shielding its passengers from the chaos outside. Inside, however, the silence was deafening.

Emery sat rigid, the scarlet folds of her gown gathered in her lap, her pulse still hammering from the gala’s cruel spotlight. She pressed her palms together, nails digging into her skin to ground herself. The laughter, the whispers, the smug tilt of Clara’s smile, they all replayed in her head like a cruel film reel.

But louder than all of it was her own voice.

Funny, I don’t remember anyone inviting you to sit at the top.

She hadn’t planned it. The words had just… slipped out, sharp and dangerous. A blade thrown in self-defense. And it had cut. She saw the shock in Clara’s eyes, the silence around the table, the fleeting curve of Damian’s lips.

The memory sent a shiver through her. Not from regret but from the dangerous thrill of standing her ground.

Yet beside her, Damian was silent.

He sat angled toward the window, his hand resting against his chin, his profile sharp as stone under the sweep of city lights. His control was terrifying—so still, so unreadable, as though nothing had happened.

Emery clenched her fists tighter. Part of her wanted him to speak, to acknowledge what she’d done. Another part of her prayed he wouldn’t, because whatever words Damian Cole chose to unleash would never come gently.

The limousine slowed as they reached the mansion’s long driveway, headlights sweeping across the manicured gardens and the towering facade. The iron gates closed behind them with a hollow clang.

When the chauffeur opened the door, Damian stepped out first, immaculate as ever despite the hours of scrutiny. Emery followed, the cool night air brushing her flushed skin.

Inside, the mansion welcomed them with its usual oppressive grandeur. The marble floors gleamed under the chandelier’s glow, the silence thicker than the velvet drapes lining the walls. Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the foyer, the sound bouncing off high ceilings and ancient portraits.

Emery’s heels clicked against the stone. Each step felt louder, sharper, cutting into the silence between them.

Finally, Damian stopped near the base of the grand staircase. His back to her at first, shoulders squared, posture perfect.

“You surprised me,” he said at last, his voice low, steady, carrying more weight than the chandelier above them.

Emery froze, startled. “Surprised you?”

He turned, his eyes catching hers with surgical precision. “Most people crumble under Clara’s tongue. You didn’t. You fought back.”

Something flickered in his gaze—something she couldn’t name, something that might have been respect, or curiosity, or a warning.

Her chin lifted despite the rapid pounding in her chest. “Did you expect me to sit there and let her shred me apart?”

His lips curved faintly, though it wasn’t a smile.....it was colder, sharper. “I expected you to remember your place.”

The words cut deep. Emery’s breath caught, fury rising like wildfire in her chest.

“My place?” she repeated, voice rising.

“I’m not a prop, Damian. I’m not your doll to display and discard. I may have signed your contract, but I won’t be humiliated for sport.”

The air shifted instantly, heavy, charged.

Damian stepped closer, his presence suffocating, his shadow swallowing hers against the marble floor. His gray eyes burned into her, unflinching.

“Careful, Emery. Pride is useful in small doses. Too much, and it gets you burned.”

Her pulse roared in her ears, but she stood her ground. Her voice came out steady, though her hands trembled at her sides. “Then let me burn. At least I’ll burn on my own terms.”

The space between them shrank until the air itself seemed to crackle. His scent—rich, dark, intoxicating, wrapped around her, and she hated the way her chest tightened.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, Emery thought he might snap lash out, crush her defiance with words or something far more dangerous. His gaze dipped to her lips for a second too long before snapping back to her eyes.

Then, just as suddenly, he exhaled, stepping back, reeling himself in with ruthless control.

“You’re fire,” he said at last, his tone quieter, almost contemplative. “And fire can be dangerous… but it can also be useful.”

The words sent a chill through her, though she couldn’t tell if it was from the warning laced within them—or the unspoken acknowledgment of her strength.

He loosened his tie as he turned toward the staircase, his movements deliberate, elegant, detached. Over his shoulder, he added, “Get used to nights like this. The gala was only the beginning.”

And with that, he ascended the steps, leaving Emery standing alone in the cavernous foyer, her heart a wild drum against her ribs.

Her throat tightened, and she clenched her fists again. For a moment, the marble floor beneath her felt like ice, rooting her in place.

Emery realized then that surviving Damian Cole’s world wasn’t about hiding her fire. It wasn’t even about tempering it.

It was about learning how to wield it.....before it consumed her entirely.

.

.

Emery never imagined her phone could feel like a weapon.

It buzzed against the nightstand, relentlessly, as though the outside world had found a way to break through the mansion’s fortress walls. She rolled over, still heavy with sleep, and squinted at the screen.

243 new messages. 98 missed calls.

Her pulse spiked.

She sat up, clutching the device. Her first instinct was panic—was her mother okay? But as soon as she unlocked the screen, the truth became obvious.

Her name. Everywhere.

College Group Chat – “Old Roomies 💕”

“OMG Emery!!! You’re MARRIED to HIM???”

“No way, tell me this is a prank 😂”

“Sis really leveled up—Mrs. Billionaire now 👏👏”

At first, her chest warmed with something close to amusement. They sounded excited and curious. But then,

“Wait… but why you tho?”

“She was always so quiet in school, can’t picture her with Damian Cole.”

“Watch out. Men like him chew girls up and spit them out.”

The words stung. She swiped away.

---

Workplace Group Chat – “Office Fam”

“So THAT’S why she quit.”

“Makes sense. Why settle for a paycheck when you can marry money?”

“Kinda sus tho. Bet she trapped him.”

Her stomach twisted.

She closed the chat, her thumb trembling. New notifications blinked before her eyes. Unknown numbers. Social media alerts. She tapped one almost on autopilot.

Twitter—X.

Her face. Her gown. Photos from the gala already circulating, captured from dozens of angles. Hashtags climbing into the trending bar.

#DamianColeWife

#GoldDiggerOrQueen

#CinderellaScam

Her throat went dry. She scrolled through the chaos:

“She looks terrified next to him 😂”

“Random nobody. Bet she won a raffle.”

“Cute dress tho. Shame about the face.”

“Three months, tops. Place your bets.”

Her chest squeezed so tight she couldn’t breathe. She dropped the phone onto the sheets, as though its glass screen had seared her.

But it vibrated again, mocking her. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

With shaking hands, she picked it up once more. A DM request blinked at the top. She opened it—against her better judgment.

“Careful, sweetheart. The higher you climb, the further you’ll fall.”

Emery’s stomach lurched. She locked the phone and pressed it flat against her thigh, willing her heart to calm.

“You’re trending.”

The words froze her blood. She looked up sharply. Damian stood across the room, already in a dark tailored suit, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, the other tucked neatly in his pocket. He hadn’t even looked at her when he spoke.

Her voice shook. “They’re tearing me apart.”

Finally, he turned, his gaze pinning her like a blade. “Of course they are. That’s what people do when they don’t understand something. They pick it apart until it makes sense to them.”

Her hands clenched into fists. “Easy for you to say. You’re Damian Cole. They worship you. I’m just—”

His voice cut her off, low, lethal. “Don’t confuse worship with survival. I’ve been hunted longer than you’ve been alive. The difference between us is, I don’t bleed for them.”

Before Emery could respond, a sharp knock rattled against the door. It opened without waiting.

Clara swept in like a storm, perfume thick, heels sharp. Her phone glittered in her manicured hand, the glow of the screen illuminating her satisfied smile.

“Well, well,” she purred, striding closer, “if it isn’t the internet’s favorite punching bag.”

She angled her phone toward Emery, her tone dripping with glee. “Look what I found.”

On the screen, a gossip blog headline blared:

‘DAMIAN COLE’S NOBODY WIFE: GOLD DIGGER OR PLACEHOLDER?’

Beneath it were comments, vicious and fast:

“She looks like she begged him.”

“The poor man must be desperate.”

“Bet she’s just warming his bed until someone better comes along.”

Emery’s stomach churned.

Clara leaned in, her smile venomous. “It’s tragic, really. Some people aren’t cut out for the spotlight. Maybe you should’ve stayed in your lane.”

Emery’s pulse roared in her ears, her nails digging crescents into her palms. She forced her gaze up, steady and sharp.

“Funny,” she said coolly, “for someone so sure I don’t belong here, you spend an awful lot of time watching me.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed, the mask slipping for just a moment.

“Clara.”

Damian’s voice sliced the air. He hadn’t raised it. He didn’t need to. His authority dripped from every syllable.

She turned to him, feigning innocence. “I was just.....”

“Leave.”

One word. Cold. Final.

Clara’s lips parted, ready to protest, but his gaze silenced her. She straightened, tossed her hair, and clicked toward the door. At the threshold, she shot Emery a glare sharp enough to pierce skin. Then the door slammed shut.

The silence left behind was heavy, suffocating. Emery’s heart pounded, adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

When she finally dared to glance at Damian, he was studying her, unreadable as stone. Then, the faintest curl touched his mouth—not warmth, not humor, but something sharper.

“Not bad,” he said softly. “For a moment, you almost sounded like me.”

The words sent a chill down her spine. Not praise. Not insult. Something more dangerous.

Emery clutched her phone tighter. The notifications kept buzzing, muffled against her palm. But she realized now,surviving this wasn’t about silencing them.

It was about turning that noise into armor.

And maybe, learning how to weaponize it.

.

.

.

Starlight ✍️