CHAPTER SEVEN - FRACTURES

The gala wound down like a dying fire. Guests trickled out in clusters, their laughter brittle, their goodbyes perfunctory. The orchestra packed away instruments, staff cleared crystal and linen, and the grand ballroom slowly shed its magic until it looked like what it was - a stage after the curtain had fallen.

Amara kept her head down, gathering notes, ticking names, anything to keep her hands busy. But she felt him before she saw him - Damian, standing at the far end of the room, silent, immovable.

For a moment she thought she could slip away unnoticed, vanish into her small quarters and bury herself in exhaustion. But his voice cut through the emptiness.

“Stay.”

Her footsteps stilled. Slowly, she turned.

He was watching her, tie loosened, jacket undone, a man cracked at the edges. The Damian Cole of the glossy magazines - the untouchable mogul - was gone. What remained was sharper, rawer.

She swallowed. “I should finish clearing—”

“Leave it.” He stepped closer. “We need to talk.”

The words lodged in her chest. She had known this moment would come the second Caroline walked through those doors. She just hadn’t expected it to come so soon - or that he’d drag her into the center of it.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked quietly.

“The truth.” His gaze pinned her. “What did she tell you?”

Amara hesitated. The memory of Caroline’s voice lingered, velvet wrapped around steel. “He’s drawn to honesty… That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“She said you were engaged,” Amara said finally. Her voice sounded small against the cavernous room.

A muscle jumped in Damian’s jaw. “She had no right.”

“But it’s true?”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating. He didn’t deny it.

Amara’s stomach twisted. She had no claim on him - he wasn’t hers to question - but the thought of him belonging to someone else, once upon a time, lodged in her like a thorn.

“Why does it matter?” His voice was low, dangerous.

“Because she’s here,” Amara shot back. “Because everyone in that room looked at you like you were bleeding and they smelled it. Because Vanessa is enjoying this, and I’m the idiot caught in the middle of a war I don’t even understand.”

Her words echoed, sharper than she’d intended. But she didn’t take them back.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat she thought he’d snap, end this game with a single command. Instead, he exhaled slowly, as if reining himself in.

“You’re not an idiot,” he said at last.

Amara laughed, bitter. “Then what am I? Because right now I feel like a pawn.”

“You’re not a pawn.” He stepped closer, the space between them thinning to a breath. “If anything, you’re the one piece on the board no one accounted for. That’s why they keep testing you.”

Her pulse stuttered. She wanted to believe him, but doubt gnawed at her ribs. “And you? Are you testing me too?”

His eyes darkened, unreadable. “Always.”

Something electric snapped in the silence. For a heartbeat, she thought he might reach for her. For a heartbeat, she thought she might let him.

Then his phone buzzed. The spell broke.

Damian pulled it from his pocket, his expression hardening as he read the screen. Without another word, he turned and strode from the room, his retreating figure a shadow swallowed by the corridor’s dark.

Amara stood frozen, the echo of his words pounding in her chest. Always.

Her room felt too small, too suffocating. She paced the narrow space, the gown heavy on her skin. Sleep was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Caroline’s knowing smile, Vanessa’s satisfaction, Damian’s fractured mask.

A knock at the door startled her.

When she opened it, she didn’t find Damian - but Vanessa.

The other woman leaned lazily against the frame, a glass of red wine in hand, her expression bright with amusement. “Rough night?”

Amara stiffened. “What do you want?”

“To congratulate you.” Vanessa’s smile was razor-thin. “You survived the gala. Not everyone does.”

Amara’s hands tightened on the doorframe. “Why are you really here?”

“Because I enjoy watching people flail,” Vanessa admitted. She tilted her glass, the wine catching the dim light. “You think you’re holding your ground. Admirable. But you don’t see the whole board, little café girl. Caroline’s return isn’t an accident. And Damian?” She leaned in closer, her perfume heady. “Damian is many things, but he is not merciful.”

Amara’s breath caught. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Vanessa whispered, “that you should ask yourself what happens to people Damian can’t control.”

With that, she straightened, her smile sweet and poisonous, and drifted down the hall like smoke.

Amara shut the door, her chest heaving.

She pressed her back against the wood, eyes burning. For the first time since she stepped into this house, fear took root - not just of Vanessa, not even of Caroline. But of Damian.

Because if Vanessa was right, then Amara wasn’t just caught in the middle. She was walking blind into a fire that might consume her whole.