Chapter 44

AMARA’S POV*

I didn’t know what annoyed me more.

The fact that Dorian Wellington had been acting like nothing happened after the apartment party… or the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I was in my office that afternoon, sorting through his documents and answering emails, when his intercom buzzed.

“Amara.”

His voice was calm, like he hadn’t ruined my peace of mind in one night.

“Yes, sir?”

“Come in.”

I exhaled slowly, stood up, and walked into his office with my notepad.

Dorian sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, looking like the kind of man who didn’t sleep but still looked expensive.

He slid a black card across the table without even looking at me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“You’re coming with me tonight,” he said.

I stared at him. “Coming where?”

“A charity gala.”

I blinked once. “Sir, I’m your PA. Not your… social assistant.”

His eyes lifted to mine.

“You’ll be both tonight.”

My throat tightened. “No.”

Dorian leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world.

“You’re not asking,” I said. “You’re ordering.”

“Yes,” he replied simply.

I almost laughed.

“And why exactly do you need me there?” I asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for a file on his desk and flipped through it like this conversation didn’t matter.

Then he said, “Because you’re coming.”

I gripped my notepad tighter.

“Do you want me to attend as your PA?” I asked. “Or as your date?”

That got his attention.

His gaze dragged up my face slowly, like he was reading me.

“As my PA,” he said.

Then he paused, and his voice lowered slightly.

“And as my date.”

My stomach twisted.

I hated how my body reacted before my brain could.

I forced myself to scoff. “That’s inappropriate.”

Dorian stood up. He walked around his desk, stopping directly in front of me.

He didn’t touch me, but his presence did enough.

“You don’t get to decide what’s inappropriate anymore,” he said.

I stared up at him. “I don’t belong to you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Be ready by seven,” he said.

Then he turned away like the conversation was over. I stood there for a second, completely stunned. Then I walked out before I embarrassed myself by arguing further.

Davina nearly screamed when I told her.

“A gala?” she repeated. “Dorian Wellington is taking you to a rich people event?”

“I’m going as his PA,” I said quickly.

Davina rolled her eyes. “Amara, please. That man doesn’t know the meaning of ‘professional.’”

I didn’t respond. Because she wasn’t wrong.

By six thirty, Davina was in my apartment like it was her personal fashion studio, throwing dresses across my bed.

“You’re not wearing black,” she announced. “Black is for mourning. You’re going there to kill.”

“Davina—”

“You’re going to make Sofia regret her whole existence,” she continued.

I frowned. “Sofia might not even be there.”

Davina gave me a look like I was stupid.

“She will be there. Trust me. That type of woman can smell a threat from miles away.”

In the end, Davina picked a fitted midnight-blue gown that hugged my curves like it had been sewn directly onto me. It wasn’t too revealing, but it left no room for imagination either.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

I looked… expensive.

Not like a girl who struggled with hospital bills. Not like a girl who had no business standing beside Dorian Wellington.

Davina smiled. “Perfect. Now you’ll make him suffer.”

“I’m not trying to make him suffer,” I muttered.

Davina snorted. “Liar.”

At exactly seven, a black car pulled up outside.

When I stepped out of my building, Dorian was already standing beside the car, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that made him look like he owned New York.

His eyes landed on me and stayed there. He didn’t speak for a moment.

And the silence was loud.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Dorian’s gaze dragged down my body slowly, then back to my face.

“You’re late,” he said.

I stared at him. “It’s seven o’clock on the dot.”

He stepped closer, stopping in front of me. His voice dropped.

“You look like trouble.”

My throat went dry. I forced myself to roll my eyes. “Let’s go, sir.”

He opened the car door for me. The ride was quiet.

I stared out the window, pretending the tension wasn’t choking me.

Then Dorian spoke.

“Don’t talk too much tonight.”

I turned to him. “Excuse me?”

His eyes stayed forward.

“Don’t entertain men,” he said.

I laughed in disbelief.

“So now you’re giving me social rules?”

Dorian’s jaw tightened. “I’m giving you instructions.”

I leaned back in my seat. “You don’t own me, Mr Wellington.”

His gaze flicked to me briefly.

“Tonight,” he said calmly, “I do.”

My face turned red. I looked away before he saw it.