Chapter 7

The morning after the storm of rumors, Emery thought she’d have a moment to breathe. But the universe or rather, Damian had other plans.

He appeared in the doorway of her room, sharp in a gray suit, his gaze as cool as a winter blade. “Get dressed. Tonight, you’ll be attending the Cole Foundation’s charity auction.”

Emery stiffened, sitting up straighter on the bed. “Tonight? After—after everything that’s being said about me?”

“That,” Damian replied, buttoning his cufflink, “is exactly why you’re going.”

Her chest tightened. Of course. He wasn’t offering her a choice. This was strategy. Damage control. She was just another piece on his chessboard.

“Wear something that makes them choke,” he added before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

---

The Auction

The hall shimmered with gold and glass, chandeliers throwing fractured light across polished marble floors. The city’s elite filled the space—women in glittering gowns, men in crisp tuxedos, their laughter echoing like glass breaking.

Emery walked beside Damian, her arm resting lightly against his. She felt the weight of a hundred eyes pressing into her, peeling her apart layer by layer.

“Is that her?” someone whispered.

“She’s prettier online,” another murmured.

“Poor thing looks nervous,” a third voice snickered.

Every laugh, every dart of attention sliced into her. Emery lifted her chin higher, fighting to keep her expression composed.

Damian, by contrast, was unbothered. His hand rested on the small of her back, guiding her like a king ushering a pawn, his eyes focused on the crowd with lethal calm.

They made it to their table, where champagne flutes gleamed and programs lay perfectly folded. Emery barely had time to settle before a familiar voice oozed through the air.

“Darling,” Clara cooed, gliding into view.

She was radiant in emerald silk, her every move choreographed to catch light, her lips painted in cruel red. She leaned over the table, ignoring Emery entirely as her hand brushed Damian’s arm. “You didn’t tell me your wife was trending. Quite the scandal.”

Emery’s jaw clenched, but she forced a thin smile. “I suppose not everyone can handle being in the spotlight.”

Clara’s eyes glittered. “Some people mistake a spotlight for a noose.”

Damian said nothing. He simply sipped his wine, watching, weighing, letting the tension stretch until it hummed like a live wire.

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The Incident

The auction progressed, numbers flying, paintings sold, diamonds lifted onto velvet trays. Emery tried to steady herself, tried to match the rhythm of the room. But Clara was relentless low remarks, mocking laughter, veiled insults.

And then—chaos.

A shudder of metal. A gasp from the crowd. Emery looked up just as the chandelier above the side table gave a groan.

The chain snapped.

The glittering mass of glass and steel plummeted, fragments exploding across the floor. Emery barely had time to scream before shards rained down.

Pain seared across her arm as she stumbled backward, crashing to the marble. The world spun. Gasps filled the hall, heels scraping, people shouting.

Through the chaos, she saw Clara, her emerald gown torn where glass had grazed her thigh. Clara cried out dramatically, collapsing against the table, her hand pressed to the shallow cut blooming red.

Emery blinked through the sting of her own wound, disoriented. She tried to push herself up, blood slicking her skin.

And then she saw him.

Damian.

He moved swiftly through the wreckage, his expression unreadable. For one aching heartbeat, Emery thought—he’s coming for me. Relief surged, shaky and desperate.

But then he strode past her.

Straight to Clara.

“Damian,” Emery whispered, her voice breaking.

He crouched low, lifting Clara effortlessly into his arms, his jaw taut, his voice low but steady. “You’re fine. You’ll be taken care of.”

The crowd buzzed, phones flashing. Murmurs rippled like fire through dry grass.

He picked Clara.

His wife is bleeding, and he picked Clara.

Emery froze on the floor, glass shards around her, her pulse hammering. The cut on her arm throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache splitting her chest wide open.

Damian glanced at her once—just once—as if confirming she was still conscious. His eyes lingered, cold and unreadable, before he turned away, carrying Clara toward the exit.

The room tilted. Emery’s vision blurred. She pressed her hand to her arm, forcing herself upright. Alone.

For the first time since stepping into Damian Cole’s world, she realized the truth in its cruelest form:

In his empire, pain wasn’t shared. Pain was a test.

And she had just been left behind.

.

.

The world outside the auction hall was a blur of flashing lights, gasps, and frantic whispers. Emery sat rigid in the back of the car, her arm throbbing beneath the silk scarf hastily tied around the cut. She couldn’t hear the chaos anymore not the reporters calling Damian’s name, not the shrill questions about Clara.

Only the silence.

Marcus, Damian’s bodyguard, sat across from her, his eyes fixed out the window, his jaw stone.

Emery finally found her voice, raw and trembling. “Where’s—where’s Damian?”

Marcus didn’t even glance at her. “Mr. Cole asked me to take you to the hospital.”

The words hit harder than the glass that had cut her skin.

He asked. He didn’t come.

Emery’s chest tightened, but she forced her eyes forward. The leather seats smelled like Damian—expensive, rich, cold. It was suffocating.

The car didn’t lurch, didn’t race. It moved with the same calm efficiency that Damian himself carried everywhere. Emery pressed her hand harder against her wound, trying to steady herself, but her mind screamed: Why Clara? Why not me?

She bit her lip until she tasted blood, anything to keep from breaking in front of Marcus. She knew if she let even one tear slip, it would never stop.

---

The Hospital

The white lights of the emergency ward burned against her eyes. Nurses swarmed quietly, disinfectant stinging, voices clipped.

“She’s the Cole wife, isn’t she?” a nurse whispered behind her mask.

“Then why isn’t he here?” another murmured, glancing at the empty corner where a husband should be.

“I heard he carried Clara out himself. Cameras caught it.”

Their voices were low, but Emery heard every word. Each syllable pressed into her like glass shards.

She kept her face blank, staring at the ceiling as the doctor stitched her arm with steady hands. The antiseptic smell mixed with her own blood, making her stomach churn.

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Starlight ✍️