Chapter 5.

“You wanted to see me?” Emery asked, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.

He turned slowly, those gray eyes raking over her face like he was cataloguing details only he could understand.

“Yes. We need to set boundaries.”

“Boundaries?” she echoed, folding her arms.

Damian’s expression didn’t shift.

“This is a contract marriage, Emery. Nothing more. Which means, no wandering around my house as if you own it, no casual chatter with staff, and most importantly….” his voice dropped, slicing into her like a blade,

“don’t mistake my silence for affection.”

Emery’s breath caught, her pride stinging. She clenched her fists at her sides.

“You think I want your affection?” she shot back, her tone sharper than she intended.

“Please. I just want to survive here.”

For the briefest flicker of a second, something passed through his eyes—an unreadable glint that softened and hardened all at once. Then the mask snapped back, cold as ice.

“Good,” he said evenly. “Then we understand each other.”

Her throat tightened, but before she could fire back, the heavy double doors creaked open.

“Damian,” a silky voice purred, dripping with entitlement. Clara.

She glided in like she owned the mansion, every step deliberate, her heels clicking against the polished floors. Dressed in flowing cream silk, diamonds winking at her neck, she was every inch the society princess.

Her gaze skimmed Damian first—lingering, possessive before landing on Emery. Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh. Her.”

Emery’s chest constricted, but she lifted her chin. Clara’s presence was suffocating, all perfume and venom.

Clara circled slowly, her voice rich with false sweetness.

“Tell me, Emery… what’s it like living in a house where you don’t belong?

Must feel overwhelming. I’d be terrified of getting lost in these halls.”

Her smirk widened, daring Emery to break.

Damian leaned back against the desk, silent. Watching. Testing.

Emery’s pulse raced, but she forced her lips into a smile.

“Not at all,” she replied smoothly. “I’ve always liked museums. This one just happens to have better furniture.”

The silence that followed was almost tangible. Clara’s expression faltered, shock flickering across her perfect features.

Damian’s lips curved, almost imperceptibly—before he stifled it, his eyes giving nothing away.

Clara recovered, her tone sharp.

“You think you’re clever. But you’re nothing compared to me. Nothing.”

Emery tilted her head, feigning innocence.

“Then why do you feel the need to remind me?”

The words sliced through the air. Clara’s eyes blazed, fury radiating off her like fire.

Damian’s voice broke the tension, calm but deadly. “That’s enough. Clara, leave.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Damian….”

“Now.” His tone brooked no argument.

For a moment, Clara looked as though she might defy him, but then she spun on her heel, storming out, her heels striking like gunshots.

The echo of her departure left a charged silence in the room.

Emery’s hands trembled at her sides, but she held her chin high. She wouldn’t let him or Clara see the storm inside her.

Damian straightened, his gaze locking onto her. His eyes were unreadable, but his voice was low.

“You should be careful. Clara isn’t someone you want as an enemy.”

Emery swallowed, her throat tight but her voice steady. “She already decided to be mine,” she whispered.

“Might as well fight back.”

For the first time since she’d known him, Damian’s jaw tightened, not in anger, but in thought. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to tame her fire… or watch it burn everything in its path.

And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

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THE GALA

The envelope had been impossible to miss. Black as midnight, heavy in her hands, sealed with wax so perfectly pressed it almost mocked her trembling fingers. Her name had been written across it in gold ink, looping letters that screamed wealth and power.

It sat on her vanity all morning, daring her to open it. Emery stared at it as though the very paper might bite her. She didn’t have to ask who it came from. In Damian Cole’s house, nothing appeared by accident.

By evening, the answer revealed itself in flesh.

Damian leaned against the doorframe of her room, dressed in a black suit tailored so precisely it looked like the fabric had been cut directly from his shadow. The crisp white shirt beneath only sharpened his features—angles of stone and steel, carved with perfection and cruelty.

“You’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,I already told the butler to arrange ur dress in the bedroom " he said.

No greeting. No explanation. Just a command.

Emery blinked, startled.

“Ready for what?”

His eyes, cool and unreadable, sliced through her. “The gala.” His voice carried no room for refusal. “Don’t embarrass me.”

And then he was gone, leaving the words hanging in the air like a blade.

---

The dress laid out for her was scarlet silk, heavy yet soft, shimmering under the chandelier light. It clung in places she would have preferred it didn’t, baring her shoulders, curving around her waist, pooling at her feet like liquid fire.

Her reflection in the mirror startled her. She looked… untouchable.

A woman she barely recognized stared back: hair pinned into a sleek knot, lips painted a daring red, eyes framed with dark liner that made them appear bigger, bolder.

She whispered to her reflection, almost a plea. “Don’t let them see you’re scared.”

By the time the chauffeur opened the sleek black car door outside the mansion, Emery’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure Damian could hear it.

He slid into the car beside her, silent. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to. His presence was oppressive, filling every corner of the space, pressing against her ribs like a second skin.

The drive was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional sweep of headlights across Damian’s sharp profile. Emery kept her hands clasped in her lap, nails biting into her palms.

When they arrived, the grand hotel loomed like a palace, every window blazing with golden light. Outside, luxury cars lined the entrance, and photographers hovered like vultures, lenses flashing.

The moment Damian stepped out, heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd, cameras clicking faster. And then Emery followed, the scarlet of her gown catching the light.

Gasps. Stares. Whispers.

🗣️Who is she?

🗣️The new Mrs. Cole?

🗣️She doesn’t look like one of us.

Emery’s cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin. If she faltered now, she’d drown in their judgment.

Inside, the ballroom was an ocean of wealth. Chandeliers dripped crystal, violins played from a corner stage, and tables overflowed with champagne flutes and gilded cutlery. The air smelled of roses and expensive perfume.

But every eye followed Damian Cole. And by extension, her.

---

Clara appeared before Emery could take two full breaths.

Emerald silk clung to her figure, her hair curled in glossy waves, diamonds catching the light with every tilt of her head. She radiated confidence—the kind that came from being adored, envied, and feared in equal measure.

“Darling,” Clara purred, brushing her lips against Damian’s cheek in greeting. Her fingers lingered a fraction too long on his arm. Her eyes glittered when they slid to Emery. “And you brought… company.”

The word dripped with disdain, like Emery was a forgotten handbag rather than a wife.

Emery forced a smile, pulse quickening.

Damian’s gaze flicked toward her, the barest shift, but it was enough. He heard her.

Clara’s smile sharpened. “How quaint.”

Throughout the night, Clara’s barbs came one after another, masked in silk and sugar.

“Oh, you don’t drink champagne? How… provincial.”

“That gown is stunning. Though, I do believe it was from last season’s collection.”

“So tell us, Emery, what exactly did you do before catching Damian’s attention? Surely something… respectable?”

Each jab was delivered with the sweetness of a poisoned cocktail, each met with polite chuckles from the circle of wealthy onlookers.

Emery smiled tightly, the taste of iron on her tongue as she bit down on her pride. Her palms dampened, her throat tightened, but she held on.

And then Clara went too far.

“Some girls climb ladders,” she said with mock sympathy, tilting her glass. “Others just… marry them.”

The table chuckled. Emery’s stomach twisted, shame clawing at her chest. But then she caught sight of Damian.

He was watching her. Not intervening, not rescuing her just watching, as if this were some kind of test. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes pinned her in place.

And something inside Emery snapped.

She turned her head, smiling so sweetly it made her teeth ache. “Funny,” she said softly, “I don’t remember anyone inviting you to sit at the top.”

The words hit like a whip crack. The table fell silent. Clara’s hand froze around her glass, her knuckles white.

For the briefest moment, Damian’s lips curved into the ghost of a smirk before he masked it behind his wine.

The violin music carried on, conversations resumed, but the balance had shifted. Clara’s smile no longer reached her eyes.

For the first time that evening, Emery felt the spark of something dangerous: power.

But as the night wore on, Damian’s hand brushed lightly against the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd with subtle control, reminding her, claiming her. Every touch was a message: You belong to me. You may have teeth, but you are mine.

And Emery, though her chin remained high, couldn’t shake the truth.

She had won the skirmish. But in Damian Cole’s world, she wasn’t sure if survival would ever mean victory.

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Starlight ✍️